Day by Day
We have turned into a '50's couple.
Actually, since half of the conversations that we have now sound exactly like ones our parents would have, it's possible that we have simply turned into a couple in our 50's. The baffling part is that we don't seem to mind.
Seriously. I have decided to see the bright side: it's not that we have become less interesting by moving in together; it's just that now there is someone around who is interested in all of the dull minutiae. I explore Paris and run errands while Nick works, he comes home and reads the paper while I make dinner, we eat and chat about the aforementioned activities, and then we rinse and repeat. For days so lacking in narrative potential, they're really an awful lot of fun.
What's especially nice is that neither of us has to navigate being here alone anymore. Which is doable, I'm sure, but often incredibly frustrating. Yesterday I felt absurdly proud of myself after getting two watches repaired, and dropping off a few sweaters at the dry cleaner I have selected (O'Pressing, just because I like the name).
Can you imagine being proud of that? Nick can.
But really: at the dry cleaner the woman tallied up the bill, and then frowned, and asked me to check her math. Which I did. In French. Okay, mostly I just said "Yes, that's right," and then worked it out for sure as I walked home, but math in a foreign language takes forever.
And in spite of the fact that I spent most of both encounters silently praying that whatever the salesperson was rattling on about didn't actually require a response beyond smiling and nodding, the prayer was not so urgent, because if I screwed something up horribly, I would just send Nick back to fix it. And vice versa.
In the meantime, I made my very first beurre blanc (without cream, of course) last night, and it actually came out. If only I had had similar luck with the rest of the meal--fortunately, Nick has discovered a source of very good bread.
And I have begun to chat with one neighbor: an elderly man who takes about 20 minutes to walk ten yards, and always worries that I would be taking the elevator if he weren't in my way (well...I might). So far our conversations have mostly consisted of me completely misunderstanding his muttered French, and answering his questions repeatedly and at random until he indicates that I have finally made sense. He does not seem to mind; it gives him something to do on the long walk through the hall.
He thought I was Spanish. I think that's kind of cool. So does Nick.
See what I mean?
Actually, since half of the conversations that we have now sound exactly like ones our parents would have, it's possible that we have simply turned into a couple in our 50's. The baffling part is that we don't seem to mind.
Seriously. I have decided to see the bright side: it's not that we have become less interesting by moving in together; it's just that now there is someone around who is interested in all of the dull minutiae. I explore Paris and run errands while Nick works, he comes home and reads the paper while I make dinner, we eat and chat about the aforementioned activities, and then we rinse and repeat. For days so lacking in narrative potential, they're really an awful lot of fun.
What's especially nice is that neither of us has to navigate being here alone anymore. Which is doable, I'm sure, but often incredibly frustrating. Yesterday I felt absurdly proud of myself after getting two watches repaired, and dropping off a few sweaters at the dry cleaner I have selected (O'Pressing, just because I like the name).
Can you imagine being proud of that? Nick can.
But really: at the dry cleaner the woman tallied up the bill, and then frowned, and asked me to check her math. Which I did. In French. Okay, mostly I just said "Yes, that's right," and then worked it out for sure as I walked home, but math in a foreign language takes forever.
And in spite of the fact that I spent most of both encounters silently praying that whatever the salesperson was rattling on about didn't actually require a response beyond smiling and nodding, the prayer was not so urgent, because if I screwed something up horribly, I would just send Nick back to fix it. And vice versa.
In the meantime, I made my very first beurre blanc (without cream, of course) last night, and it actually came out. If only I had had similar luck with the rest of the meal--fortunately, Nick has discovered a source of very good bread.
And I have begun to chat with one neighbor: an elderly man who takes about 20 minutes to walk ten yards, and always worries that I would be taking the elevator if he weren't in my way (well...I might). So far our conversations have mostly consisted of me completely misunderstanding his muttered French, and answering his questions repeatedly and at random until he indicates that I have finally made sense. He does not seem to mind; it gives him something to do on the long walk through the hall.
He thought I was Spanish. I think that's kind of cool. So does Nick.
See what I mean?
posted by Caroline | 3/09/2007 11:44:00 AM
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