Bon Jour con’t…
And having a few problems of my own starting before I ever left home….
Being of the age when I can no longer predict with any accuracy the timing of my monthly cycle and getting closer and closer to our departure date, I decide to challenge Mother Earth and take matters into my own hands. I call my gynecologist. You remember her. The one with the Ethel Merman delivery and “Private Practice” looks. The one who at my last visit lamented about not being able to retire any time soon and predicting she would die face down in someone’s crotch. Her. I leave a message saying I am going on a trip, and could she please help me. She calls in a prescription to the local pharmacy. The pharmacist calls and WHISPERS to me that they don’t have this particular brand in stock and do I need it today. I laugh; No, I don’t need it today. I don’t even know what IT is. 
I’m getting used to doc-types whispering to me about anything having to do with my IT. This must happen to women around 50. I suppose it’s better than being 70 when they yell at you because they think you can’t hear. I hop over to the pharmacy the next day all proud of myself for thinking ahead. A young man of about 25 gives me my prescription, THE PILL. Not having thought this out and panicking at the sight of them, I ask for the pharmacist and begin whispering on my own. I know I will not be taking the little darlings according to the instructions and am concerned. What if I turn into some kind of raging monster? I reason it can’t be worse than periomenopause. Besides, I did read the small print that said they could increase libido. I take them. I gained five pounds on the plane. By my first day in Paris my face and eyes were round and swollen. Every time I left the apartment my eyes watered like I was crying. Here I am in the most romantic city in the world, and I’m puffed up like a marshmallow. My Guy was kind enough or smart enough, I’m not sure which, to pretend he didn’t notice. Until the first day after we came back when he told me how much better I looked. He likes to tell me I took one for the team. I remind myself of this every time I look at the pictures.
Here I am in this hormonal blitz, awake for over 24 hours and a waiter starts speaking rapid fire French to me. German came out, my high school language. Those moments scare me more than you know. I didn’t feel so bad when My Guy kept answering Ci in Spanish.
On Sunday in France the museums are free. We decide to tackle the Metro and go to the Louvre. We find a subway entrance and proceed to try and buy tickets from a machine. We cannot read French, but we understand our card was declined. A nice young French woman realizes we don’t know what we are doing and offers to help. She explains that our card needs a chip on the back, not a swipe. She tells us if we go back up to the side walk and turn left we will find a live person. We do as we are told and have no idea what she is trying to tell us. I think there is a tourist office somewhere close by and start walking only no My Guy behind me. It was at this moment I realized how very differently My Guy and I problem solve. Or maybe it’s man vs. woman think. He plants his feet on a corner sidewalk and does not move. And he is not going to move until he has it totally figured out. I, on the other hand, want to wander aimlessly and figure it out as I go. My friend warns me about this, how traveling together as a couple can be a challenge. I dismissed it saying we had traveled together before. We compromise and My Guy asks someone for help. The live person is down another Metro entrance where we stand in line for tickets. The man at the ticket counter, Pierre I will call him, blew me kisses and ignored My Guy. He pretended to write down my telephone number and tell me how beautiful I was. So far so good.
We find our way to the Louvre where half of the city had the same idea as us. We wait in line an hour to get in and then go through 
security. We note again that the French are not in a hurry to move us through the line and could care less we are standing outside in the cold. We get inside, and I walk toward the headphones and tour information. My Guy asks me what I’m doing. He says, no, and points to his brochure. I already know, he says, what are the important things to see (Paris for Dummy’s) and we need to go here, here and there. Somehow this just does not seem right. We compromise and stroll through, no headphones, trying to walk in the direction of the famous art works. What arrogance on our part when we are both surprised there is no English translation. It’s amazing how close you can get to actual works. The Louvre itself is a former royal palace that goes on for many city blocks. The Mona Lisa is smaller than you would think. We were warned about this ahead of time.
From then on My Guy would throw a book at me in the morning before we left on day’s tour so I could read a little history before we got somewhere. And we got the headphones.
Much more to come…Love to all.
Goodnight from Greenville,
Dyanne
Sneak preview……
The French have certain rules of engagement or non-engagement as it may be. Rule one is do not make eye contact or smile. Making eye contact means you are interested in getting together. Do you know how hard it is to break the habit of smiling and saying hello? Do you know how many people I came on to in Paris?
Dyanne is an inner wisdom coach, psychotherapist, writer, mind-body healer, Integrative Yoga Therapy teacher, certified “Journal-to-the SELF” instructor and creator of http://www.holywhollyholey.comhelping women heal and step into their power. She is the author of the ebook, “Holey Path to Holy Living: A Women’s Path to Healing and Freeing Sacred Feminine Power,” which can be found on Amazon and on her websitehttps://www.amazon.com/Holey-Path-Holy-Living-Feminine-ebook/dp/B01MUI0OOJ/ref=sr_1_13?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1486652110&sr=1-13&keywords=holy+path
