Forget the models! Try not to murder the man you sleep next to! I love Séb, I truly do and we've made it to ten months without any problems, hiccups or red flags, but sometimes he does really stupid things. He may be 95% perfect but he's still a man and sometimes they just can't help it...
Séb every so often has what I call "senior moments" where I know he means no harm, but he just doesn't think. For instance, last November, we were on our way to a party when he mentiond that the theme was black and white. I was wearing purple plaid. Do you know how dumb I felt being in a room full of guests elegantly donning black and/or white and I'm in a bright purple wool plaid dress? I looked like I was auditioning for a community theater production of Oklamhoma. I looked like an ass. His defense was that he had told me three weeks earlier, but instead of fighting with me like MF would have, he admitted that he could have reminded me (or as I say, told me) and made things right by keeping my champagne glass full - for the entire night.
Well this morning, Monsieur Senior struck again. It's been November since I've seen him and was starting to wonder when he'd pop up again. I guess today was the day. After a delicious twelve hours of straight sleep, I woke up feeling refreshed with clear eyes and radiant skin and went to the bathroom. Within milliseconds of sitting, I nearly jumped off the toilet from excruciating pain that instantly zapped me out of my morning haze. I had a fucking urinary tract infection. How inconvenient. Incidentally, I just had an e-mail exchange with another blogger about gynecologists here in France, and was telling her that I have never gone to one here. Well, look how much can change in a matter of hours.
Séb was in his office getting ready for work when I came in and told him about my lady parts problem. Being the amazing guy that he is (senior moments or not) he offered to take me to his doctor that was around the corner for support. I appreciated this because doctors in general make me nervous, but explaining everything in French terrified me. Who wants to talk about their ill nana in French? Not me. Before we headed out, Séb called his office to tell them that he would be coming in after lunch and then added, because his "girlfriend's vagina was not well".
For real.
Did he tell Marie, the receptionist that my vagina wasn't well? No. Marion, the intern? No. But Raoul, his fat, middle aged co-worker who talks with his mouth full and per Séb, always has stains on his shirt after his greasy lunches that stink up the office. So my doctor, my boyfriend and Séb's entire office know that my vagina is not bien. Ça va pas!
I could have killed him. Okay, okay, maybe it's not that big a deal, I guess just didn't want Raoul or anyone in Séb's office thinking about my vagina or acknowledging that I even have one. Is that asking too much?
The visit went well and was in and out in under 30 minutes. The doctor, a nice Jewish man, was gentle, direct, spoke clearly for me, gave me my medicine and it was....free. You hear that America...free. I ignored his hand the he had extended in an attempt to shake mine and went in for the kill. I gave the him a hug, which I could sense he found somewhat disarming, but I just couldn't resist. He was so cute and was giving me free stuff like healthcare, that I had no choice but to love him.
As Séb and I were parting ways outside of the pharmacy, him going to work and me returning to the apartment to take a bath, he had asked, "So are you still planning on coming by the office after work to go to dinner straight from there?" No, chéri, me and my vagina will not be going to your office...anytime soon.
