Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you?
I think Sara Benincasa called it correctly yesterday. There is nothing sexier than a French fireman rescuing art. Between, the accent, the bravery, and the overall cultural redemption… serious swoon.
In 2015, my facial nerves were severed. No more feeling, no smile—only a smirk after many months of ridiculous face push-ups. I remember wanting to feel a kiss so badly. I’d watch husbands, wives, and lovers at school drop-off and just long. Perched on my stoop, full of pins and plates, I’d close my eyes and imagine a man kissing me on the very sexy-ticklish spot where my earlobe becomes my neck. I’d feel the bristle of his well-trimmed scruff against my cheek. My face, unafraid, cradled in his hands, the laughing play of whispered jokes. The warmth of lips would always become this girl-swallows-sun glow I’d carry around all day.
It’s been four years since I’ve felt a kiss.
I’ve almost started forgetting that it’s even possible, which means I mourn it less. Last week on the anniversary of the beastly day, friends took me to lunch for an amazing re-birth-day. For the last few years, I’ve regarded the date itself with a mix of superstition, gratitude, and regret. Somehow, this approach and comedy have saved my rag and bone hiney, but yesterday, watching Notre Dame burn amid the quiet shock and then the hymns, I re-remembered love and missed it deep in my bones. I’d been in love there once.
I would like a French fireman, please? Preferably one who reads?
Thanks to those of you who wrote in to tell me I had Trump hair. Arya Stark voice back at you: A girl has toner… and a list. But don’t get me started on that despicable Cheeto.
Stay rad, Lovelies – xoxo – gg