Y’all, this is very, very sad.
I have no photos to share.
The only new photos on my IPhone since I got back from France are of my dog, and let’s face it, those are not interesting to anyone but me. So the photo above (looking out of the window of the abbey at Mont St. Michel) is there just because I think it’s pretty. It has no bearing on this blog post whatsoever.
Yes, I am back in the real world, where fresh, crusty French bread is not available at every market, where every bottle of wine contains preservatives, and where straciatella and nocciola gelato exist only in my dreams.
This the world where, predictably, after the first “cold snap”, my tire pressure gauge went on, reminding me that NONE of the gas stations near me having working air machines. I should have remembered this from last year before I wasted my 75 cents.
It’s the world where I try to get excited about making homemade soup.
Where the makeup is heavier, the hair blonder, and wearing all black, all the time, is a sign of gothdom or fashion laziness, not a sign of being chic.
It’s the world where I greet an Englishman I’ve never met like an old friend, simply because he’s from across the pond.
Now, as much as I like blog comments, let me forestall those of you who were about to write some variation of:
But you were in PARIS! Quit complaining! Most of us don’t get to go to Paris!
I am aware of this, and it doesn’t change how I feel one bit.
Of course, the fact that I came back to, shall we say, a “bit of a challenge” at work could also be contributing. It’s always tough to come back to the grind after being away for 2 weeks, but trust me when I say what I came back to was more like a grist mill. I have sworn not to air my work baggage on this blog, so I won’t, but I will say that having the foundations of what you’ve always believed about yourself fundamentally challenged is a scary thing. And while I did spend my weekend curled up in my house watching TV, venturing out only to walk the dog and seek provisions, I am pretty damn proud of myself for getting out of bed each morning (last week and this) and doing my best to get the job done.
And true, there are some things about not being in France that are good.
Like the fact that here in America I am not the only one not wearing skinny jeans.
Or the fact that women’s bathrooms don’t have urinals.
Or that I’ve been reunited with my pooch.
Ok, I’ve got nothing.
Really, I would rather be in France, or barring that, enjoying a week of watching TV in my PJs.
I’m sure this too will pass. After all, vacation would be boring if it wasn’t special, right? RIGHT?