+18 years

Life is not a romantic comedy.

155, romantic incompatibility, Photo by charlesdeluvio on Unsplash

Fed up with fairy tales

Like many, I spent my childhood telling me wonderful stories about princesses. And believe me, when you’re 10 years old, have the beginnings of acne and are already a size 4, the life of a princess is the grail, the dream life.

Being a princess, but nothing could be easier…

Okay, at the beginning, you might be bullied by a naughty mother-in-law, or a dozen little men who force you to do the housework. But wait, afterwards, you just have to bite into a piece of fruit that is not fresh or lose a shoe, and bam, the prince arrives.

Come on, and here we are on a happy life with many children (many… how many, we don’t know… Like 4 or 12? No, because it’s not the same thing…).

When you’re in your twenties, you start to have doubts about princess stories. Honestly, I lost some shoes at parties, and believe me, it’s not a prince that I caught afterwards…

And then, frankly, the prospect of 12 children is really frightening… Sorry, but we’ll have to find something else!

Don’t panic, the patriarchy has thought of everything. Princesses are replaced by neurotic thirty-somethings from romantic comedies.

Depressed, ugly and not feeling good about themselves (but aren’t we the ones they’re trying to represent?), they miraculously cross paths with a man at the corner of a street, at the bend in a café or at the end of a bar, and hallelujah, he shows them the way to love.

Their lives will never be the same again. Amen.

Inconsistent but romantic

So yes, it’s funny to think that I, the single, proud thirty-something who would like to make manhunting an Olympic practice, is also caught up in this whirlwind of nonsense.

Well, sorry, but yes, the TV movies of M6 got the better of me too. So clearly, I would never admit it, and I wish I didn’t believe it.
But my unconscious is playing tricks on me.

In the supermarkets, it watches for a strong hand likely to grab the same package of pasta (Barilla, obviously). My eyes look for the pupils of Prince Charming when my feet avoid the crowded streets.

So yes, I love to hunt. I love to be the mistress of seduction, to be the actress of my desire and of my encounters. I am proud to say that, finally, if I meet someone it is first of all thanks to me.

But deep down, sometimes, I wait for this magic, which will put a beautiful man as if by miracle on my way.

What I am saying is important for the rest of this story…

A drunken Saturday night.

It’s a classic Saturday, until this pub crawl with Paulo, which starts with 4 pints at 5.30 pm and ends with ten shots in 5 different bars.

It’s 10:30 pm, when I finally join my little redheaded girlfriend, the alcohol has done its job of inhibition, and I feel more motivated than ever… To dance!

Strangely, I don’t feel that drunk. Pompette at most, or have the Jäger shots already tainted my sanity?

Leaning against the bar, my pupils look for potential prey, but I don’t feel like hunting. For the record, I’m on break.

Suddenly, a man passes in front of me, he half-jostles us, I make a joke. He laughs. His look is straight and frank. Something is happening between us. We are both troubled.

He says “See you later” and disappears behind the crowd.

Missed appointment or not?

I dance and forget about the men for a while. My head is spinning, the alcohol fumes add to the nausea of the cigarette I just taxed.

As we take our second tequila paf, I turn around, he is there. His eyes do not leave mine.

Wouldn’t this be the magic I was waiting for? But yes, for sure, he is the man of romantic comedies. He asks me in a soft voice for my phone number.

He tells me he’s changing bars with his buddies. Oh no, don’t go so fast, beautiful stranger. I sigh, the date of our lips is missed for tonight. Although…

After entering my number into his phone book, I run my hand over the back of his neck and pull him to me. Our lips brush against each other at first, then our tongues link up.

His is a bit too greedy for my taste but it’s not so unpleasant.

His friends call him, he gives me a last kiss, gives me a last look of regret and disappears.

I’ll skip the deplorable state in which I came back that night, and the infamous hangover of the next day.

But the next day, I have above all, one then two then an exchange of a few dozen text messages with the not so bad (considering his Whatsapp picture) Baptiste (I was convinced his name was Philippe, Cinderella comes out of this body).

Strike while the iron is hot

The conversation by message is rather pleasant and remains very chaste (for me it is rare enough to be noted).

We decide to do everything to see each other this week. We have to strike while the iron is hot, otherwise we will forget each other, and who knows, I might miss the man of my year (life, don’t exaggerate).

Well, a part of me believes in it, and another one remembers Sabine’s words… nothing in 2022. And then, he lives in the suburbs, but really FAAAAAAR the suburbs.

I’m free on Thursday, he’s free on Wednesday. He insists on Wednesday. Sorry, I will be on stage that night. He jumps at the chance, the guy is motivated, he is willing to come to the show. Coming from so far away, to see me potentially make a fool of myself on stage, if that’s not motivation…

I might as well tell you that it stresses me out, uh, is it really a good idea to have a first date at my improv show?

Plus, he’s coming alone, it’s embarrassing.

I’m torn between the feeling of really living something magical, it’s not so common, and the instinct that all this is a very bad idea…

The D-day

Wednesday finally arrives. We wrote to each other every day. Wishing each other a good day and a good night, it’s going a bit fast all the same… Wouldn’t this be the highway to emotional dependence?

The stage fright is with me all day long. Stage fright to play tonight, fright to meet him. Will he like me? Will he like me? Will he find me ridiculous on stage?

The hours pass quickly, and I am already at the bar to play. We were supposed to meet before, but he is late, and he arrives only a few minutes before I go backstage.

I see him outside, I think it’s him. Instantly, I am disappointed. Before I even go to meet him, my heart sinks. Is he really the man who is supposed to change my life and put rose petals and glitter on it?

His physique is ok. He is rather tall, quite thin, but robust. One guesses a little bun of thirty years old. Thirty and a few years, in fact, it is the age I would give him.

On the other hand, the style, it does not go at all. He looks very clean, first of the class. Shirt and sweater on top, a classic grey coat, and glasses that make his eyes look tiny. In short, he looks stuck up…

Uh, is he really the one I had a crush on Saturday? I really have to stop drinking…

I come to meet him. His eyes don’t sparkle, he doesn’t smile too much. Ok, he too is probably disappointed. Well, it will be nice this evening…

Post show

I leave him with one of my improv buddies, and I go to my acting duties.

The show is pretty good, but I have this feeling of having done too much or not enough. I feel frustrated, but I can’t really put my finger on it.

It’s in this state of mind that I meet my friends, and my future husband (a part of me still wants to believe). The shoulders, a little stooped, he seems mute in front of my three girlfriends. One of them sends me an equivocal look. She knows. She knows that I am not enthusiastic, that I will probably never be enthusiastic…

Come on, it’s tradition, I still have a drink with everyone. But I feel him so embarrassed to be there, he smiles little, my jokes don’t seem to hit the spot, and he is not very enthusiastic about the show…

Come on, I put him out of his misery and suggest to him to isolate himself far from the crowd of spectators, in another bar.

On the way, I try to be light, and funny to relax him. It’s not quite that, but it’s better.

One on one

Mister may be an introvert. Maybe he will feel more comfortable between four eyes?

I order a bottle of red wine, which we each accompany with a dish. He is not very talkative at the beginning. We quickly realize that he is four years younger than me. Nothing dramatic, but I feel that he is almost embarrassed.

The conversation is laborious. I feel like I’m pulling out the oars. He laughs at my jokes, of course, but I am bored.

The drinks follow one another, and I feel that he is relaxing. His hand grabs mine on the table, and I feel the warmth of his skin. It’s silly, but it’s been a while since anyone held my hand like that.

And for me, the physical contact is… not the most important, but frankly essential. So I let him warm my icy fingers between his palm and his fingers.

And when, in the middle of a sentence, he leans over and kisses me, there too I let myself go. I wait for the click, that moment when it will be obvious. A physical evidence at first, then maybe an intellectual one.

But the kiss doesn’t create a spark, I don’t feel any chemistry. Nothing. Nothing. Nada. It is not horrible this kiss, but it is not obvious.


I know most girls would have stopped there. No evidence, ciao. But I wanted to know for sure. Because for me, this is the ultimate test. I’ve been known to have no chemistry with someone, to have a “bof” feeling when kissing them and then finally Bim have a great osmosis with them in bed.

Ok, I admit, it’s very rare. But here it is, I wanted to believe it.

A few minutes later, I’m in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, in full debate with myself.

— Come on, ask her to come to your place! Honestly, even if it’s like kissing, it’s okay. And then my daughter, it’s been a long time, I’m hungry…
— No, but I don’t like him, he’s not crazy after all. His glasses don’t fit at all. And frankly, I’m tired.
— Oh no, not the tiredness! You give him a chance! Frankly, he’s far from the worst, he’s nice… And his hand, the heat…. Girl, do it for me.
— We’ll see…

I leave the bathroom, not knowing what to do next. So when he tried an “Ah hell, my last train is in 10 minutes.”, my lips couldn’t help but pronounce “At worst, you sleep at my place.”.

“At worst,” you might say, I have a sense of invitation.

No more turning back

Of course, he didn’t even try to run after his train. He stayed in front of me, patting my knuckles, sipping his glass of wine.

So the decision is made, he leaves with me.

We leave the bar, his fingers squeeze mine, it is so cold, I do not ask for more. We rush to the nearest subway station, and on the platform, he takes me in his arms to kiss me.

It’s nice… Yes nice… But not wow. We are not in my romantic comedy… Presumably…

In the subway, I am keeping the silence, and he is busy silencing me with kisses. Would I get him drunk?

There you go, no evidence

When we arrived at my place, he was much more enterprising. But like the rest of the evening, he is average. He is neither generous nor stingy in caressing, it looks a bit like he is following a roadmap.

Engineer to the end of the bed. I am not carried away. My thoughts wander away from carnal pleasures. Impossible to look at him to cum. So I close my eyes, and let other fantasies do the work.

His skin is warm, and my fingers caress his skin, imagining someone else’s.

There will be no orgasm for me, for him there will. His tongue seeks mine once again. Definitely no chemistry. My romantic comedy is apparently not for today.

I still enjoy his warm body to snuggle up to him. If not a good lover, he was a good hot water bottle.


In the morning, his cuddle becomes more equivocal. I always feel like it in the morning, half asleep bodies waking up with pleasure…
Personally, I find that there is no better way to start the day…

So I am receptive, and our bodies bond again. But the disappointment still hits me. It’s crazy to have such a lack of osmosis.

He finally leaves my bed, puts on his things and leaves. That’s not all, but he has to cross half of the Paris area to change at his place… Oops.

A last kiss on the lips, a wave of hand and I close the door. I oscillate between disappointment and relief.

A few hours later, he writes me to tell me about his journey. I am slow to answer, he is not. I space out the exchanges.

During the weekend, neither of us gives any news. I am relieved that we are at least in phase to say that we were not.

On Monday, he offers me to come to his house. I cannot leave him without an answer, and it is with the greatest honesty that I confess to him that I do not wish to see him again. The evidence was not there. Good luck, Philippe… Uh Baptiste!

Hoping that my romantic comedy will arrive one day…