Since writing 100 Days of Happiness, a lot of things have changed in my life. Not exactly an understatement as life does move forward for everyone, but it's been an adjustment. A part of me thought that after the emotional roller-coaster finally ended that I would be different--fundamentally changed, but I'm still an idiot.
I arrived in Paris yesterday, otherwise known as the city of love and while The Cockney and I occasionally held hands, nibbled on baguettes together and perused icons of interest, we were both in bed by 9:00 pm, out to the world and sleeping solo.
The romanticism of my soul expected wine sipping on our little balcony and hours of fornication, but reality dictated and subsequently annihilated my ideals. BBC was our ambience and the slight waft of passing French curry was the perfume from our bathroom.
As I drifted off to sleep--unsated and sober--it occurred to me that my idiocy was re-birthed from forgetfulness. My creative mind had taken hold and raised expectations and completely dismissed the magic of actuality.
I was with my Cockney, in Paris, seeing the most amazing things and safe in his arms as I slept soundly in feathered cushioning. Did I really need a glass of red and a good bonking?
Hell yes. I'm in bloody Paris!