Chronicles of a French Bistro, part 2: I am NOT single

Well ok, I am, but don’t breathe a word of it to all the fat smelly old pervs who sometimes (regularly) come and have a drink in my bar. They do not need to know. If telling them I’m… married can in any way deter them from further flirtation, then that will be my official line.

Let me explain the why and wherefore of today’s rant. My boss, expecting it to be a quiet shift, booked an appointment at the hairdresser’s and left me in charge (I feel so grown up when I say that hihihi). It was very quiet though. I had only served a couple of coffees when two men came in. They were obviously father and son, and quite probably came from the gipsy camp down the road. They had a martini and a glass of white wine. They were sitting at the bar, so what with it being so veeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry very quiet, I couldn’t escape talking to them. So. The son asked me – like many other people do (it’s such a wonderful, imaginative way to start a conversation) – whether I had a boyfriend or not. I’m afraid I confessed to being single, which caused a glint to spark up in the (hairy smelly old) father’s eye. Euuuugh! I immediatly knew I’d made a mistake.

And when the son when out for a fag, the dad started advertising to me the health benefits of having sex on a regular basis, and how nice it can be to do it with random strangers. After all, the luuurve is a part of life is it not? One simply needs to have intercourse every now and again…it’s only natural, isn’t it? Eeeeek! All the while I was trying to –well– get him to shut up, basically, but he had an answer to every thing; when I said my life was fine as it was, and none of his business by the way, he just said that you know, there’s life, and rrrrrrrr sex life. Ooooooooooow, I have already mentioned that I am no fan of text speech, but …*shaky panicky voice* OMG !

I could go on for a while about the specifics of today’s encounter, but I’ll spare you the details. Sufficient to say it made me both want to be safely married, and avoid all contact with males. However I might shift my marital status back to “single” the next time a handsome, well behaved, interesting young man comes through the door, perhaps. We’ll see.

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The good friend gene: am I doomed to remain single for EVER?

Like any girl I am always on the prowl, keeping my eyes open for Mr Perfect, Mr Prince Charming, or maybe even just some guy. As it happens, my life is full of very handsome, charming young men who unfortunately are just not interested in me. Well they are, but not “like that”. They like me very much, they love talking to me, I am their confidante even, but they “don’t think of me that way”. In fact: “Let’s just be friends”.

from smallpeculiar.com

Had I had this sort of conversation only once, it would not be so much of a problem, but when you reach your tenth or eleventh relegation to the friendship zone, you may start to wonder: could it be something to do with me? Do I emit some sort of “friendship” hormone which makes every one of my male acquaintances describe me as nice? Oh yes I am nice enough. Too nice for my own good even. So nice that I will swallow back my feelings when, out of the blue, you start asking me for advice about how to reclaim the heart of your ex-girlfriend (incidentally -and you know who you are-, that really hurts). But why? Why? WHY is it?

Since I have spent the past two weeks producing essays in the ultra-organised-french-essay-writing fashion, I will build my argument and analysis around three major aspects, each step of my reasoning separated into paragraphs (preferably three, each corresponding to one specific idea, with a pertinent example to illustrate it).

Naaaah, only kidding, can’t be bothered; I’ll just carry on ranting instead. Pondering the possible reasons for this curse:

Is it something about french men? Am I too boringly gallic for them? Should i go back to Germany and have all those teutonic blond young men fall for my “süßes, sexy, französiches Akzent”? Am I too nice? I have spent years shaking off my previous defining adjective: “sweet”, only to have this other one stuck to me like a label on a jam jar. But what would be the trick to remove a tenacious imaginary sticker? Because if it can help, I would be willing to submit myself to any metaphorical equivalent to boiling water and a brillo pad that you can come up with.