I sit in my apartment just off rue Labrouste, surrounded by the debris that comes from packing one's belongings into boxes, suitcases or whatever container happens to be handy (plastic trash bags are remarkably versatile in this respect, in case you didn't know this and are moving any time soon. They're not just for the poubelle anymore). I haven't really cleaned in here in at least a month, because I'm hardly ever here, so things are pretty... ah, NOT pretty... and now I am faced with cleaning EVERYTHING in the morning, because the proprietaire wants to bring a prospective new tenant here tomorrow afternoon. Suffice to say, I've got stuff to do, and lots of it.
It is a Saturday night, and I am actually here alone. I haven't been alone on a weekend since the beginning of October (I don't count the times we were separated by necessary travel in December, because that 24 days of separation was too painful and we both prefer to block most of it out). My better half is presently on the TGV speeding south, a brief overnight trip to transport one child to visit with family for part of the winter school holidays. I waved them off at the platform at Gare de Lyon several hours ago, and then headed back into the métro toward the Tuileries shopping arcades to pick up a copy of Petite Anglaise's new (and first-ever!) book, just out in England (and in stores in Paris that carry English-language books -- it comes out in the US in a few more months but you can probably order a copy online and have it shipped over the pond).
Although I have a lot of packing and cleaning up to do, as I dive into the book on the #12 line from Concorde to the 15ème on my way back to my place, I consider going out to a movie later but decide to give myself permission to just stay in and read tonight. Above ground again at Convention, I pick up a Nutella and banana crèpe for "dinner" (hey, it has fruit in it so it's healthy), and hop a bus to get me the last 10 blocks while the food is still hot. I arrive at my apartment, settle in with my gooey French pancake and "Petite", read a few pages... and then I realize it.
I think this may well be the last Saturday night I ever spend alone, with myself, in a place I live in alone, all by myself.
Wow. I hadn't thought of it that way before, until now. But "my place" is very nearly no longer MY place at all. In fact it now only feels like the place I come to work during the days and to crash here the few nights a week when I'm not at Georges' house. I used to love cocooning up here, and was totally comfortable and at home right from the beginning; it was my Ikea-chic little refuge after a hard day of pounding the Paris sidewalks in search of... well, nothing really, other than I just love walking in Paris. (Hey, it's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it, n'est-ce pas?) Even when Georges and I were first dating, I used to love being here with him. I still do, although we now spend very little time here. And at this moment I feel no affinity whatsoever for the space that is still technically my own, at least for a few more weeks until I hand over the keys. This is no longer "home" to me. Home is now where Georges is.
But more than becoming aware of, and mildly surprised by, my new-found detachment to my apartment is the realization that I am no longer a célibataire, a single girl, "still single", "over 40 and single", or whatever euphemisms for "I'm single and not happy about it" people are typing into a Google search that end up leading them here. I am now part of a couple, and on the verge of becoming part of a blended family, and about to co-habitate for the first time in my life. My books will become mixed up with his books (although mine, being in English, will have the text on the bindings pointing to the right while all the others in French will face left). Our clothing will share closet space (I am already wondering where I will put all my coats and jackets, and can we please talk about SHOE STORAGE?) The femme de ménage who comes every week may be laundering my "unmentionables" along with the rest of the family washing; I've never had someone else do my laundry and in fact I may end up continuing to do my own until I can get better used to the idea.
In my heart, I have been "no longer single" pretty much since the day Georges and I first laid eyes on one another. Now, however, we are taking the emotional commitment to a more serious and practical level, one that involves joint decisions and discussions about money, making space in bathroom cabinets for all my girl-stuff, and him asking me if there is anything special I want from the supermarket because I have my own favorite foods (and he already knows my favorite flavor of cereal). As I reflect on this -- the fact that I am stepping out of a lifestyle I have known for decades, and into one that is fresh and new and completely unfamiliar territory for me -- I notice I am only feeling one thing.
Utterly calm and at peace about it.
Well then. Isn't this interesting? I am not sad. I am not worried. I am not stressing out. I am not regretful. I guess that is the "sign" (had I been needing one) that I am ready for this step. I am well and truly "done" with being single.
Still, I think I need to enjoy this, my last night as a "single gal" -- not because it is the end of something I don't want to end, but because it is the beginning of something that I know will both fulfill and challenge me in new and exciting ways I may not even be able to visualize right now. As Georges said to me earlier, in a texto from the train, "Profite bien de ta soirée". Not "have a nice evening" but "profit well from your evening". (The French are big on telling you to profiter from things, and they aren't talking about money.)
And to celebrate my transition from "Bold Single Soul" to "Two Bold Souls (with three bonuses)", I will "profit well" by enjoying a nice glass of wine and immersing myself in a book by another Paris ex-pat blogger whose life also took some unexpected turns once she came here and fell in love with a Frenchman.
I will enjoy this night with a good book. But I'll be even happier tomorrow night, to see mon bel amoureux when he comes home to me.
