It's On Facebook, So It's Real

After having a few not so pleasant experiences blogging about my relationships, I vowed I would never do it again. It was amended, really, to say something like "I will never blog about my relationships...until they are seriously relationships." Because when you blog about dating (as seen in Exhibit A, above) you risk of running over someone with an emotional steamroller. While I personally have no qualms about letting my life be read by six people each day, not everyone is so comfortable with that. I aimed to be a little more tactful.

But then you have Facebook. Like Myspace, it's a creepy social network that allows everyone you know in on all the tiniest facts of your life. For instance "Juliet is no longer listed as single." And suddenly everyone knows you have a boyfriend, even though you haven't talked about it on your blog.

I didn't mean for it to happen. Of course I wanted to meet someone. It's Paris after all. Even my new therapist was highly advocating that I have a nice relationship here. There is hardly a more romantic city in the world, right? It can be sort of miserable some days, to walk alone while everyone else seems to be hand in hand. But I had decided - the day I met him, actually - that I would do as my brilliant sister advised and just stop looking. This is the year I am going to become a world famous children's book author, and then make it to the top of the New York Times Best Seller List (or at least Oprah's Book Club) with my memoir, and damn, these things require TIME. I wrote all of this in my journal with a great big heart of good intention, and then went to a party.

Like all my good stories of December, this one was fueled by too much champagne. On my part at least, because he was designated the driver for the evening and so hadn't had a drop. And yet, there happened a connection. If there had been a full moon I would have blamed it. Four weeks later we are like two teenagers stealing away each others time, having little moments in the midst of a crowd and talking for hours on the telephone.

What can I say except that I am most definitely smitten. And the best part? He is too! After a relationship of such imbalance with the Frenchman, I hardly know what to do with someone who is on the same emotional level with me. I won't say that it's completely uncomplicated because it isn't at all. He's French, after all (we won't hold it against him, though) and there is the whole "Going back to America" thing. But happiness ensues.

And now everybody knows.