Nothing Special

(Boo's impression of what I have been doing these days.)

One of the things I loved (but never wanted to admit) about living in Paris was the simple fact that it made me special. Not just that it made me feel special, but I was - in a way - regarded as so. I wasn't only special in France (“Oh, you’re American.”) but I was special stateside as well (“Oh, you live in Paris!”). Not only would people I used to know find my geographic placement awesome, in the traditional sense of the word, people I had never met found me interesting. I was an expat. People thought that was so damn cool.

Have I talked about this already? Have I endlessly bored you about my need to be paid attention to? Have I whined on this until you’ve wanted to slap me silly? I can’t recall. I guess I will do it again.

The Boy has been across the pond for two weeks now. It already feels like forever. I haven’t spent my time well, aside from constructing the puzzle

(I think that one single missing piece makes the puzzle so poetically perfect.)

watching several NCIS marathons, and pouring through my new Barbara Kingsolver book. I’ve had four bad allergy attacks, went grocery shopping once, spent 100 dollars on various Health and Beauty items, and left my house outside of the purpose of going to work exactly three times.

(Shoes and books on depression, not pictured.)

In short, I have done quite literally nothing of note. When I lived in Paris the simple act of walking down the street was story-worthy. Everything I saw was inspiring. Each encounter I had seemed touched by the charm that lives and breathes in the City. I had things to talk about, things to write about, things to see.

And now I have returned to Philadelphia. Once again I am just another person on the street, going through the tolls, checking out at the grocery store, buying cat litter from Costco. I don't sound different from anyone else; I don't look different. I am just another number, searching for a story.

I guess you could say I am suffering from a little disenchantment - how does one go from living in such an amazing city back to a "normal" life? Who am I now, if I am no longer the identity I held so dearly?

Today, in a moment of boredom at work, I googled myself. I have enmassed quite an internet footprint, actually. Most websites reference a certain 15 seconds of fame, the back links long since eaten by today's news. One site teased publicity for a children's book I claimed I was going to write but never did. (Again, the link was no longer valid.)

On page eight or nine, I found a link to blog that reviewed my blog. Blog reviewers, who'da thunk it. The gentleman said nothing but flattering, lovely things, telling my story and sharing his favorite blogs. And there he put it into words:

"Although the blog starts way back in April 2007, for me it all starts getting interesting in September 2008 when Juliet moves to France."

But I am not there anymore. Thus, no longer interesting. Isn't that what the equation would look like?

Self pity aside, I have writer's block. Which - as a funny side note - I read about today in a blog where someone adequately described writers block as what it really is: Procrastination. And I said to myself "What am I procrastinating for?" Which prompted me to look for blogs on motivation where I read the next truth that one "needs to be excited by their writing", which I am clearly not. And why not?

Oh, the black hole that is the internet.

I feel as though I am starting from scratch, here. I have about two readers who loyally come back to check on me and the rest... The rest I left in France. So where do I go now? What is exciting me in my life, enough to write about? What - oh the eternal burning question! - am I evolving into now?

Thus I leave you, thoroughly rivetted, I am sure. In next weeks episode, we will discuss the bordel* that is my apartment since the boy has gone, and whether or not I am getting fat, wrinkly and gray haired. I know you all simply cannot wait.

*Bordel in the French sense (a big hot mess) NOT the english sense (brothel).