J'adore Paris

I recognize them...that young couple...fresh-faced and in awe, a bit bewildered by it all: How did this happen? How is it possible that we are, together, married, in front of the Eiffel Tower? That was 10 years ago. Our honeymoon. We were still untouched by the sleepless nights that came with our newborns (and occasionally still make guest appearances with our now-almost-big-boys), by the stress of leaving on a trip and leaving behind two little souls who will miss and go on with their little lives without us (as best they can), by the overwhelming responsibilities that come with Grown-Up Life: the mortgage, the lawn guy, the daily packing of lunchboxes, the realizations that come with watching your own parents age, watching  your children grow, watching life happen.

And tomorrow, we go back.

To Paris.

Just the two of Us.

Seven days of just Us and hopefully trying to feel a little bit of that carefree abandon, that joie de vivre (sorry, couldn't resist) that was our life before the wonders of: Reality and The Boys (sounds like a rock band).

Just Us.
In Paris.

I can't get over it.

Once again, I find myself wondering, How did I get here? How did I get so lucky? How did we find each other? How did it all work out?

Paris was, for me, that place I dreamed about growing up (and by growing up, what I really mean is my early and mid twenties), that I never thought I could possibly make it to. That was back when I didn't know any better. About anything, really. I didn't know that I got to make the choices in my life. I didn't know that I got to decide who I spent my time with and what I got to do during that time. I didn't realize that, really, Paris was just a place, and all I had to do to get there was go.

It had seemed impossible.

Ten years later, life doesn't (usually) feel too impossible. For the most part, Hubby and I...we can make good stuff happen. We've been lucky. We've been blessed. And we work hard at the rest.

So for the last few months I have been practicing my French conversational tapes in the car (I don't know who I'm kidding considering that last time we went, I did that too, and ended up making a fool of myself while Hubby just pointed and grunted and got us whatever we needed, aaaannnndddd I've been speaking English since I was four years old and yet people still tell me I have a "cute litttle accent" and occasionally that I "sound like JLo", never mind the fact that I am not Puerto Rican nor from the Bronx). I have planned my Paris outfits ("By Day" and "By Night"...all black and grey and as chic as my closet contents and fashion imagination can create). I have made lists (mostly typed, some even laminated) for all the sitters. I have mapped out the Parisien addresses of the best consignment shops and coolest bars. I have dutifully doled out vitamins and smothered antibacterial gel and made sure everyone's immune system is in peak working condition. And then, I have prayed a little and panicked a little and worried a little and done little happy dances in my head that I will be in Paris...Paris!

I recognize that couple...not quite so fresh-faced anymore, but still in awe of our bonne fortune.