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4:01 a.m. - 2011-03-10
Awake and Chatty

Here I am, it's nearly 3:00am as I begin this. Up at this ridiculous hour with a case of the wide-awakes. A cyclical affliction I won't dare call insomnia, that'd be an insult to the true insomniacs who suffer through years of bad sleep. Me? A week from now I'll be curled up in my bed like a hibernating hedgehog, so no worries. As with all of my cycle-related junk…this too shall pass.

Tonight, however, I'm up, awake, and writing stuff down as it occurs to me between watching chapters of 'Julie & Julia'. (Yes, again.) There's much to like about this movie. Both from the actors, all of whom I enjoy. Streep? Adams? Tucci? Yum. And for the odd thoughts that crop up as I watch it. Thoughts about food. Tall women. How much I adore furry men. And how little I truly want to visit Paris.

Oh for sure the idea of going to Paris sounds wonderful. Who could hate Paris? But despite taking Latin and living fairly close to Montreal my French stinks. French to me is like computer-ese, a maddening language well outside my grasp. For real, my understanding of fricken Mandarin is far superior to my French. And what business does a ginormous round-eye like me have speaking Chinese? The nerve.

But I do speak it, a little. And ginormous I am. Yet watching Streep play 6'2" Julia to Tucci's elfin Paul Child and how fiercely in love they were and how much he adored her and was beyond okay with her towering, big boned presence looming over him, I am reminded of me and Mick.

I have almost 4 inches on my guy, but Mick is the first and only man to make me feel like a flower. A precious thing. Someone to be protected, treasured. It took a while to sink in but I've come to understand and honestly believe it's not our physical size that matters, but the size of the love. Mick's love for me is HUGE. I'd be dear and precious to him even if I were the size of Shaquille O'Neal.

Funnily though my most persistent reluctance to visit Paris is all about size. Nowhere else in Europe would I stick out as a gross, lumpy fat American more than I would in Paris. I have the height to take on Scandinavia and the Low Countries. I have the broad face and up-tipped green cat's eyes to do okay in Poland or Germany and most of the Baltic countries. Italy? Just another doughy Tyrolean chick from the north. But sleek, chic Paris? No way. Yes, Paris is not all of France anymore than NYC is all of the United States. But to an untraveled naïf like I am why else go to France if not to go to Paris? And the idea of clumping along the Champs-Elysees with my big ungainly self and dopey cheap clothes and non-existent French…gads, just kill me now.

I know, I know. Why should the snorting scorn of strangers make any difference? If I want to go to Paris then I should. Hell, I'm a NYer and we shouldn't feel inferior and nerdy to anybody. There's plenty of folks here in my own country who'd be intimidated and nervous about hanging with me and taking on the Big Apple. Feeling gauche and so horribly un-cool. Who the fuck are these Parisians to pass judgment? Can't help it though. Irrational insecurity is impossible to calm with reason.

Yet this isn't going to stop me from crossing the Atlantic in the near future. Somebody is a couple of new passport photos, two more %&#@ bureaucratic forms and a confirmed plane ticket reservation from being a bona fide international traveler. Details and rhapsodic spazzing out to follow soon.

Going back to my movie now. ~LA the Wakeful

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