Did That Just Happen?


I walked into Bert’s cafe today, on Avenue Marceau, and was waiting in line, when a friend bounded over.

“No way,” she said, “you have to come here, I have to show you something, I was just about to message you.”

In fact, later, I pulled out my phone and there was indeed a message sent from her, confirming our tentative plans to meet tomorrow at Shakespeare and Company and talk writing.

I got my cafe americain and went to her table.

She was tucked away in the back waiting for her husband to bring her a brownie.

Good husband.

I looked down at her table and did a double take.

My entire body broke out in goose-flesh.

There it was.

My book.


“Oh, my gosh, that is so weird for me to see,” I said trying to unsuccessfully not look down, not alert the entire cafe, not say anything too loud, too obnoxious, too American.

Which it was probably too late for that anyhow.

Especially as I was decked out today in my hot pink sweater.

There it was, my book.  My brain was still taking in the information.

Just a stack of pages.

I have seen it printed off before, in fact, I have a few copies of it in 4th and 5th draft printed off.  As well as the third draft and there are at least three copies of the second draft out there too.

Yet, here, to see my book, granted not bound, but the book I wrote, sitting on a cafe table in Paris.  I think a little part of my soul jumped up and down on the trampoline of my heart and shouted,

“I have arrived, motherfuckers!”

It was like Samuel L. Jackson all “Royale with Cheese,” Pulp Fiction style.

That was inside.

Outside, I played it cool.

Or I thought I was until I caught my big grin in the mirror and how my feet danced me out the door after we had discussed what time we were going to meet up at the book store tomorrow.  I wanted to stay and chat but another friend from San Francisco had arrived and I was back out to the cafe tables under the awnings to catch up and drink coffee before heading out to the Eiffel Tower.

I ended up doing a small dance of joy around the table, plopped myself down, and drank the coffee while it was still hot.  We made decisions on where to go and soon thereafter headed to the tower.

It was blazing cold.

It got right into my bones.

Worse, it got right into my feet, which are still, still not warmed up yet, and that was around 3p.m.  This is what it means to be old.  Not the number, not the attitude, not the way I feel, or the emotions I show, or the glee, it’s this.  My feet got cold and like a little old lady I needed a scarf and a hot water bottle stat.

It does not happen that often, but when my extremities get cold, I am seriously screwed.

I just made another hot cup of tea and thought for a moment of putting my feet in the cup.

Not that they would fit.

But yes, that’s the gist of it, old lady cold feet.

That’s how you can tell my age.

A friend was telling me last week that women who wear socks while having sex actually experience a higher rate of orgasms.

Totally makes sense to me.

First of all, I don’t want to have sex if my fee are cold, I’m tense.

If I am tense, my body is not relaxed, of course I won’t reach climax.

Thus the ladies wearing the socks will get off.

Perhaps this is why so many women fake orgasm.

Their feet are cold.

Who wants to have sex with socks on?

You don’t take off your socks to fuck me, you’re not getting any.

Just in case you were wondering.

My desire to do anything today petered out right quick when my feet got cold, the rest of me got cold, and it did not matter that my friends were here, I just wanted to get home, warm up, eat hot food.  In fact, I went to the store and bought “comfort” food.

Like making pan-fried garlic potatoes and pan roasted chicken will heat up my feet.

Maybe if I stick them in the pan.

They would probably fit in the pan, at least better than my tea-cup.

It would be close though.

The food almost worked.

I am still a little chilled, the downstairs part of the apartment is drafty too, so, once this blog is finished, the not so secret secret?

I’m going to get into my bed and hope my feet warm up under the covers.

The weird thing, once they are warm, they are super hot and it’s like I have had my body charged up.  I’ll need to take off layers to get my body temp back to a sort of equilibrium.  But until that happens, socks, slippers, and yes, soon, a throw blanket draped over my lap, old lady style.

Thank you very much.

This old lady can still dance a jig though, and cold feet or no cold feet, I will be walking my ass over to Shakespeare and Company tomorrow to find out what my friend thought of my memoir.

I almost don’t want to know.

I can see the manuscript with a bunch of red lines and comments and question marks.

That’s the way the fear goes.

It’s an honor to have some one read it.  An honor too, as she has been published, her book is out there.  She is a writer.  I can use her suggestions.  So, go I will, cold feet and all.

Appropriate metaphors amply supplied by Paris weather, not by author.

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