Posts Tagged ‘Papito’

“Bye Bye Sexy”

September 24, 2012

The owner of Papito said to me as I exited this evening from the restaurant.

Well.

If I was going to give you the thumbs up on your Yelp review, now I have to give you five stars too.

Damn.

I do feel sexy.

I am rocking the new me, the old me, the new do.

I am back to brown.

Hello sexy

Back to Brown

I was going to go blonde, but the blue was too entrenched and Diane suggested we go dark.  Dark feels right.  Dark feels me.  Dark and bold and beautiful.

I feel it.

I loved the blue, it was fun, but this feels adult and womanly and most definitely sexy.

The owner of Papito is French, no irony there.

Basically this is San Francisco–French owned organic Mexican restaurant in Potrero Hill.  It really was hands down the best Mexican I have had in some time.  Funny, too, I had “hamburgesa” basically a hamburger.

But what a hamburger.

Ground chorizo smothered with carmelized onion and sliced avocado, no bun, instead my favorite touch, which is very French, a soft fried egg draped over the top.

Oh my.

Even my food was sexy.

Salty, spicy.

Love it.

“Did you hear that?”  I said with a smile curling my face as I walked out the door with Diane and Calvin.

“Uh, yes!” Diane chuckled gleefully, “maybe you should go back and give him your phone number.”

I laughed, “not a bad idea, like I have the time.”

But I must say this does bode well for Paris.  I like getting hit on by sexy French men.

I remember something Cass said to me last year about this time when I was trying to figure out what the hell I was going to be doing, at the time I was already contemplating working in Paris as a nanny.

She said the French find older women attractive, there is not the obsession with youth like there is here in the U.S.

Good to know.

I do not represent the youth vote at this time, if I ever really did.  I was always ahead of my age, although I do not mind not looking my age, ever either.

I am glad I went back to my natural color.  Low maintenance.  I do not want to have to worry about the hair when I go.

Frankly, I do not want to worry about anything.  I want to take the first month just for me.  I want to write and get adjusted and work on my book.  I want to not look for work. I want to wander.  I want to get a museum pass and go every day to a museum for a week.  I want to meet my fellows–expats and Parisians.  I do not want to look for work at all.

Let work look for me.

I am a catch.

I am sexy.

I am extraordinary, if I do say so myself.

So, if you want me, court me.

Come after me.

I am taking a month.  I am taking time to get settled.  It is not going to seem real and it is going to be surreal and bizarre and I will feel like I am in a dream and it will be wonderful and hard and fuck if I know what it will be.

It will be what ever it will be.

I just know that I want to have some time some time to explore, myself and Paris.

I do not want to seek out employment until it becomes necessary.  I feel like I have a month.  I will have a month. I do not need to live large.

The living large will be just the fact that I am there.  The living will be in the daily get about on the Metro finding my way from this point to that point.  Walking my neighborhood.  Finding the markets.  Going on dates.

I will date in Paris, I can tell already.

I am getting my practise on here.

Despite coming home alone on the BART tonight, I feel mischievousness in the air.

Maybe it was just being flirted with that blatantly.  What I find interesting, too, is that it was not slimy, it was not rude, it was undeniably French, that’s for sure, I do have just enough experience with being flirted with by a French man to know that, but it was not off-putting.

Philippe.

Wouldn’t that be funny, to run into him again.

I could always use another make out session in the Pere LaChaise cemetary.

I do not usually find cemetaries sexy, but there is sexiness in death.  That is what the French call an orgasm after all, le petite morte, the little death.

What better place than beside a crumbling archangel underneath a century old tree canopy and a wet burnished sky?

I feel like it may be time to hand over all my colorful bright crazy clown clothes and San Francisco glee and go black, charcoal, dark navy, hunter green.

It is not just the falling of the light, the scattering of fog slipping along the edge of the horizon, it is the chic thrown together uniform that I find European women seem to have.

I have enough color splashed on my body as it is.

I will never be demure.

Even naked I shout, “look at me!”

Dragons and cherry blossoms, stars and butterflies, tulips and peonies.

I am quite simply always going to be dipped in crayola hues despite the darkness of my tresses.  But I can and I will embrace this new sexy.

This womanly movement, this getting older, this getting into my skin, soft and starting to show its age.

My face, my smile, my eyes, my hair, saying hello to a new me, a new age.

I am going to embrace the hell out of being forty.

I am truly only getting better.

Hello sexy.

Here I come.

 

 


%d bloggers like this: