Une fille sait qu'elle est devenue femme quand...

À quel moment dans sa vie rose bonbon la fille passe-t-elle au vieux rose de la femme?

Hier soir, je suis sortie prendre un verre avec mon amie, mieux connue sous le surnom de MJ ou Poupée.  Je portais un chandail rose... nanane sucée longtemps.  J'attendais patiemment ma chum de fille dans ma voiture.  Quatre jeunes hommes fumaient et buvaient dans leur bouteille de Coke (je les soupçonne d'y avoir ajouté du rhum ou du Jack Daniels) en discutant paisiblement.  Poupée me lâche un coup de fil; ça y est, elle est arrivée.  (Je dois écrire une grosse parenthèse au sujet de son retard - à lire au bas de cet article.)

Je sors de la voiture et empoigne mon sac à mains et mon veston.  "Oh, Madame!", s'exclame un des jeunes hommes.  Pas certaine que l'exclamation me concerne, je ne fais que relever les yeux dans leur direction.  Quatre paires de yeux sont rivées sur moi alors je suppose que c'était vraiment à moi qu'on s'adressait.  "C'est tellement sexy votre chandail.  Ça vous fait tellement bien!  C'est pas décolleté, très class.  Vraiment beau."  Euh... merci?  Bien sûr, je le remercie pour son compliment.  D'abord parce que je trouve beaucoup plus agréable de me faire dire que mon vêtement est sexy et que je le porte à merveille plutôt que de me faire siffler comme une marmotte.

 

(picture credit: sinstyle.ca)

Mais le coup de grâce est donné.  Je suis à ses yeux de jeune homme de dix-huit, vingt, vingt-deux ans au maximum; une Madame.  Une femme d'expérience.  Quand est-ce que ça m'est arrivé?  Quand est-ce que je suis passée de fille à femme?  Et il m'a dit "VOUS".  Il sait qu'il y a suffisamment de distance entre son âge et le mien pour qu'il sente la nécessité de me vouvoyer.  Il voulait simplement être poli?  SVP, dites-moi qu'il voulait simplement se montrer charmant et poli!

Je vis très bien avec mon âge.  Je ne voudrais pas retourner à mes 22 ans.  Je ne me suis jamais sentie aussi à l'aise avec moi-même que depuis mes 29-30 ans et ça s'améliore avec le temps.  J'ai confiance en mes moyens et je suis très à l'aise avec ceux-ci. Je suis passée de fille à femme sans m'en rendre compte.  Même si mon charme attire toujours les jeunes hommes, je suis clairement passée dans la cour des grandes.  #deuildejeunesseàfaire.  Barman, vite, à boire!  Et apportez m'en un double.

(Parenthèse sur le retard de MJ: depuis des lunes, elle conduit une voiture à transmission manuelle.  Cette semaine, elle a laissé sa voiture au garage pour quelques mises au point et, quelle chance, ils lui ont laissé une voiture de courtoisie!  Je lui envoie un message texte pour lui dire que je suis rendue à notre point de rencontre.  Elle m'appelle.  "Écoute, j'ai un petit problème.  Je ne peux pas me rendre.  La voiture de courtoisie que le garagiste m'a laissée, je pense qu'elle a un système anti-démarrage et le con a oublié de me dire comment l'enlever".  "As-tu essayé les clignotants?  Souvent ils mettent ça dans les clignotants", que j'avance.  Je l'entends signaler à gauche et à droite, mais aucun bruit de moteur qui démarre.  Parce que je conduis moi aussi une voiture manuelle, j'ai tendance à toujours la laisser embrayée quand je stationne.  Je coupe le moteur, un point c'est tout.  Je me souviens que j'ai l'habitude de laisser la voiture automatique de mes parents en "drive" quand j'éteins le moteur et je lui demande: "Est-ce que le bras est sur park ou sur drive?".  Il est sur "d", qu'elle me dit.  "Appuie sur le frein, mets le à "p" et essaie de démarrer".  Vrrrrroum.  "Haha!  J'arrive!" qu'elle me laisse savoir.  C'est pour ça que j'adore ma Poupée; elle me fait rire!  Trop habituée qu'elle est à la conduite manuelle, elle a oublié que les voitures automatiques sont plus capricieuses!  Fin de la paranethèse, mais pas du fou rire.)

Bonne fête en retard Poupée!

J'ai beaucoup d'amis et d'amies.  J'ai très peu de véritables amies.  J'ai ma grande soeur qui sait me comprendre sans que je ne dise un mot.  J'ai ma Juice-Bed qui fait partie de ma vie depuis le berceau et avec qui je rêve de me bercer sur un balcon à nos vieux jours (moi avec une belle peau et elle avec ses rayons de soleil au contour des yeux?  LOL ;o). Il y a ma Glamourous Gen qui a été la complice de mes pires coups de jeune adulte et ma poussée dans le dos pour m'envoyer en l'air avec Air Canada.  Et il y a Poupée.

Cet article est en l’honneur de Poupée : mon amie MJ qui partage un bon nombre de mes joies, peines, frustrations et verres de vin, martini et autre boissons alcoolisées.  Je me dois de rédiger un article en son honneur puisque la semaine dernière, j’ai failli à notre amitié!  Poupée a vieilli d’un hiver mercredi passé et moi, occupée dans mon univers, je l’ai OUBLIÉE!  Samedi dernier, nous sommes sorties ensemble pour festoyer un peu, mais ça ne compense pas le fait que le jour J de sa fête (est-ce que ça devient le jour F?), je ne l’ai pas appelée, je ne lui ai pas envoyé de message texte et je n’ai même pas laissé de message public sur son « wall » dans Facebook.  Quelle HONTE!  J’avoue donc publiquement ma faute pour mon oubli et demande pardon à ma Poupée!

MJ et moi nous sommes connues au boulot.  En 2006, elle a joint les rangs de l’entreprise pour laquelle je travaille toujours.  Nous n’étions pas dans la même équipe, mais nous étions en collaboration sur quelques projets.  Nous avions pratiquement le même âge (j’accuse 4 mois de plus qu’elle à notre trentaine), nous étions toutes les deux célibataires (discutable pour moi, vrai pour elle), nous avions toutes les deux connu un faible pour la chair masculine basanée (j'abonde toujours en ce sens, elle est passée à un autre appel), nous habitions Montréal et nous aimions rire.

Au travail, différentes circonstances ont faites que notre amitié ne s'est pas développée très loin.  Nous étions collègues avec bien des points en commun, sans plus.  Puis un jour, elle a choisi de réorienter sa carrière et d'aller poursuivre d'autres défis.  Cependant, la veille de son départ, elle venait de me mettre en contact avec un bon ami à elle question de me faire renoncer à mon célibat.  Malgré son départ du boulot, nous allions demeurer en contact quelque temps, du moins le temps que je rencontre son ami. Même si je suis demeurée célibataire suite à cette rencontre avec le grand brummel, j'ai gagné un ami tout à fait génial et j'ai fait la découverte de l'année, j'ai nommé MJ!

Poupée c'est un bouffon.  C'est celle qui n'hésite pas à emprunter l'accent français et s'énerver les mains dans les airs pour jouer les nénettes.  C'est celle qui me fait confiance pour me partager ses secrets.  Elle, c'est une TOMBE quand on lui fait une confidence. C'est une charmeuse invétérée auprès de la gente masculine.  Elle peut tout aussi facilement racoler qu'envoyer paître le premier venu qui la frotte dans le mauvais sens du poil. Elle a la réplique facile et la langue pas souvent dans sa poche.

Poupée est demeurée longuement au téléphone avec moi un soir de blues en me disant : "C'est correct.  Je peux rester avec toi sur la ligne même si tu ne parles pas, même si tu fais juste pleurer".  Poupée, c'est le calme alors que moi je suis la tempête.  C'est celle qui se prive de donner son opinion quand elle voit que je n'ai pas encore envie de l'entendre.

Poupée a le rire facile, mais ne se moque habituellement pas de moi.  Par contre, prononcez le nom "Club Sandwich" devant elle et elle éclate de rire.  Elle va vous offrir son imitation de moi qui s'étend de tout mon long sur un plancher sale en hiver vêtue de mon manteau blanc.

C'est celle qui me fait les meilleurs Dry Martinis (shaken, not stirred!).  Un soir après le boulot, elle m'avait invitée à souper chez elle.  Un martini.  Deux martinis.  On commande une méga quantité de sushis.  Trois martinis.  Les sushis arrivent.  Quatre martini et... plus rien.  Je me réveille quelques heures plus tard, baguettes de sushi à la main.  Poupée a eu la décence de ne pas me photographier!  Elle m'apporte une couverture et je poursuis ma nuit sur son sofa jusqu'au matin.  "Tu aurais dû te voir, complètement endormie, les baguettes dans les airs".  Oui, bien sûr.  Dans la catégorie "super chic à voir", je n'en doute pas!

Avec elle j'ai partagé des cafés, des livres, de la musique, du fouinage chez Renaud-Bray, des petits-déjeuners dans le Mile-End et des moments de grande honte.

Poupée, c'est l'amie que je n'aurais jamais découverte si elle était demeurée collègue.  C'est une confidente attentive et respectueuse; une amie loyale.  C'est un bouffon et une comédienne dans l'âme.  Elle a été une des premières à me suggérer d'écrire. Poupée, c'est une personne que j'ai apprise à connaître quand j'en ai été séparée.

Pour toutes les raisons qui font de toi la Découverte que tu as été pour moi et parce que tu es une amie sincère et précieuse, BONNE FÊTE POUPÉE!

Bodyguard... or the days after January 3rd, 2009 (part 2)

It is at least 5 to 10 minutes past 3 am and my friend MJ,  and / or her male companion, have been kind enough to get my jacket at the coat check while I talk with Bodyguard.  I have no recollection of what was said at the time (yeah... makes my mom real proud!), but I do remember he asked for my phone number.  I also remember giving it to him.  He entered it in his cell phone.  We said goodbye and I left with MJ.

After a few hours of some very much needed sleep on MJ's couch, I am sitting in front of a cafe latte and breakfast at one of our usual spots.  "If he respects himself", I tell her, "he won't call me".  Come on!  Let's recap: a tipsy girl who didn't want to tell one guy off physically attacked a second guy (Really!  I clearly charged right into his chest and wrapped my arms around him) with the only intention of using him as a scapegoat.  Yes, the hour that followed the assault was quite pleasant and we assume he enjoyed my company since he asked for my number but... come on!  I would understand if he didn't call.  After all, the situation was exceptional and perhaps... just a tad strange?  I could not clearly remember what he looked like (encore une fois, c'est ma mère qui va être fière...).  I remembered he was about 5'10 because I was at a comfortable height dancing with him with my new boots on - but I didn't have to stretch on my tippy toes like when I hug my dad who is 6'1''.  The broad shoulders were definitely imprinted in my memory, as well as the silky-smooth shaved, Black skin.  But I feared I wouldn't be able to recognize him on a picture.  Nice one, Miss IPP...  I wish he would call, but try to convince myself the way I had introduced myself to him was reason enough not to call me.

In the late afternoon, I went to see the-man-of-my-dreams at the movies with my best friend: Will Smith in Seven Pounds.  I cried like a baby at the end.  Little did I know that I was often going to go to the movies in the Spring 2009.  I came home, took a hot, long bath while reading (one of my favorite things to do!) and was getting ready to read on the couch when my cell phone rang.  I did not recognize the number.  My heart started to beat a little faster.  I picked up the phone.  BODYGUARD!  He had survived my assault and called back the night after we met.  We spent three hours on the phone discussing general information about our lives: age, work, habitat, latest seen movies, siblings, etc.  We hung up the phone and had scheduled our first date for the Tuesday evening, at Starbucks.  (I find out later he doesn't drink much coffee.  I am addicted to it).

In the last hours before heading to our date, I start to be a bit nervous because I realize I am not sure what he looks like!  If there are three shaved Black men with broad shoulders at Starbucks, I am screwed!  "What are the odds?" I try to calm myself.  It is our very first date and, unusually, I am 5 to 10 minutes late.  He calls me and I reassure him I am on my way.  I think this is the only time he was on time for any of our appointments!  (LOL.  He won't be happy I wrote that but... it's still true!  Ok, I sidetracked.)  I walk into Starbucks and, oh thank you, I only see one shaved head.  And the shoulders match what my memory is telling me.  I should be safe.  I walk up to him and he recognizes me. Hurray; we have a winner!

I can assure you that I was completely sober that night, but I honestly do not remember what we talked about for the first 10-15 minutes.  I just have a very vivid recollection that, at one point early in the date, I found myself to be as giddy as a teenage girl on her first date.  Would you calm down, I have to tell myself.  It's not the first time you are in the presence of a hot man.  Because that's exactly what I am telling myself... How on Earth could I have spent over an hour dancing with him without noticing just how hot he is? (Click here and Open Link in New Tab to continue reading).  Even under the influence of alcohol...How could I have missed that?

Here I am, sitting in front of what I believe to be an absolute hunk.  The shoulders, the shaved head, the perfectly trimmed goatee... enhanced with a few white hairs (sublime), well dressed and all.  Only a few minutes in the conversation and I can tell he has a huge... vocabulary.  Wow.  I spent half a second to find a scapegoat in a club and I land this work of art?  I must have done something good!  We are kicked out of Starbucks around 11 and, freezing outdoors, we quickly say goodbye.  I get in my car and call my sister.  "OMG!!!  MÉCHANT PÉTARD!"  I still can't over the fact that I charged into this man - of all people.  Again, you go girl!

The next week-end, he has plans with his friends to celebrate and I am sick as a dog.  I call to wish him a happy birthday and we make plans to see a movie during the week.  We arrange to meet at the movie theater near my house and he is so late that I wonder if I am being stood up.  Well, no!  This is part of the learning process. Bodyguard is incredibly handsome, but rarely punctual.  Considering this is only our second date, I rank his looks at a higher spot than punctuality on my fun-o-meter, and I wait patiently.  We watch Gran Torino and we head outside to our cars.  I can tell he wants to talk, but I am freezing my onion booty (it's January!) and therefore invite him to sit in my car to continue the conversation.  "You drive standard?"  He's surprised.  "Yes, it is allowed for women, right?"  I refrain from mentioning something vulgar.  Nevertheless, Greenpeace wouldn't be happy with me.  We must have spent over an hour in my car, getting to know each other a bit more.  He goes and starts his car and we set a third date.  He doesn't even give me a dry kiss on the cheek as he wishes me goodnight.  Ok... next time, maybe?

For our third date, we see The Reader.  Not exactly halfway through the movie, I glance at my sexy chokola  and find him sleeping like a log!  Gee, I must really be impressing him!  He must truly enjoy my company (forget the movie, this is about me now!) if he falls asleep.  (Again... I find out later that this is another learning curve.  Bodyguard falls asleep very easily and rapidly when he sits down on a couch or lies on a bed).   This time, his car is the nearest so he drives me to mine and, again, we talk for over 30 minutes while my car heats up.  We agree to call each other during the week to fix another date and he wishes me goodnight, not moving an inch from the comfort of his driver's seat.  I leave, happy but confused.

I drive home thinking to myself "Why doesn't he make a move?"  Surely, he must somewhat enjoy my company or like me because he always sets up another date but yet, unlike most men I have dated before, this one does not even try to get into my pants!  During the week, I get a promotion at work and, to celebrate, I suggest we go out for drinks.  At the Whiskey Cafe, he is surprised that I drink whiskey and scotch.  He orders a beer.  I am looking good in my pinstriped suit and again, he leaves me with goodnight wishes and a smile.  We already have plans for date # 5.  More confusion, but I remind myself that I have just spent another great evening and, if anything, I had fun and enjoyed myself.

We see Defiance on our next date and then have dinner at the restaurant.  We are alone and the waiters are waiting for us to leave in order to close the place.  It's a given: he always has something to talk about and constantly inquires about my point of view; on anything and everything.  I'm thinking... this is it!  This has been a wonderful evening and, surely, I'm going to get my first kiss!  On the way home, I have to make a quick stop at my parents' house.  My mom, who knows I was out on a date with the poor fellow I savagely attacked in a bar earlier that month, inquires how it went.  "He still hasn't tried to kiss me", I pout.

On the last Friday night of January 2009, I have a girl's dinner and evening planned.  I want to leave early and meet with Bodyguard.  He has suggested we go back to Whiskey Cafe for drinks.  I like the company, I like the lounge and I like the drinks.  I decide that I have no more expectations.  I know I will spend a few nice hours and, at this point, I am just glad I am not heading home so early in the evening only to find myself going to bed with my heated sac magique.  (I figure a warm sac magique at my feet under the blankets is much sexier than going to bed with socks even if my cats are my only witnesses!).  I am sitting across the table from him sipping on my Scotch and I think to myself... MI-AOW.  Head-turning, gorgeous face when he smiles - paired with those broad shoulders, biceps that make me want to use them as my new pillows and boy, do I love to watch him leave the room!  But I have many handsome friends and if he is going to be one more, than so be it.  I have (almost) given up.

I drive back to his place.  We are sitting in my car talking (my apologies to the One Tonne Challenge).  This situation has become usual and is quite comfortable.  During the evening, however; we have discussed something new and it involves what we want and look for in a relationship.  I sense a bit of nervousness as his hands reach out to mine.  I have an outer-body experience and I see myself looking like a deer in the headlights.  Think Bambi with a dropped jaw.  He holds both my hands in his.  He tells me he is looking for a serious relationship and would like it to be with me.  He leans in and kisses me.  I faint.

:oP  Come on!  Does Miss IPP faint over a kiss?  Pfffffffffffffffff.  Hell no!  But the plot is better this way.

Bodyguard... or January 3rd, 2009 (part 1)

2008 had been a fruitless year for me on the dating scene. It (almost) ended in tragedy when I (almost) called 5-0 on a guy's butt for chasing me on the highway (note to self: make that a blog story later this month) and for calling my cell phone / sending me text messages / sending messages on MSN and / or BlackBerry Messenger over 30 times in less than 3 hours. I had proof of harassment. Happy New Year to me!

So my friend MJ and I had not been out clubbing in a few months and really wanted to get our grooves on on the dance floor before going back to work in January. We decide to go out to a night club I had never been to on boul. St-Laurent, in Montreal. We arrive and it is still early so we have a few drinks and finally hit the dance floor around midnight. Quickly, my friend spots a guy whom she thinks has potential. I could not care less about men at this moment. I am here to dance my booty off 'til my new boots won't let me. Fun and dance is all I have on my mind for the night and it does not involve cruising. A year ago almost to the day.

There I was, dancing in circles :oP, when a guy approached me and asked me to join him and his friends for a drink in honor of his birthday. Well, I can appreciate a free drink and he wasn't rude, offensive or vulgar so... slowly I approached. I enjoyed my glass, chit chatted a bit and then returned to my friend MJ and my dearest dance floor.

It's already past 1 and the Birthday Boy returns. "I'd like to buy you another drink. Come with me downstairs to the lounge so we can talk", he suggests. The dance floor was where I wanted to be but, granted, I had to have his mouth an inch away from my ear to hear what he was saying. I wasn't truly eager to go, I didn't like the idea of leaving my friend (but she seemed to be happy with her newfound companion), I would only be downstairs from her and the guy was not repulsive. To the lounge we went.

I was not half done with my drink that: a) I was tipsy; b) I knew I would surely not be spending my life with the Birthday Boy; c) I knew I would certainly not be spending the night with the Birthday Boy (c'est pas pour la vie, pis c'est pas pour la nuit non plus, le grand!). I was sipping my last sips and thinking to myself... how do I get rid of him? How do I let him down gently? (Must be the customer service in me). I hint that I want to go back to my dancing friend. We head back upstairs. With every step I take, Birthday Boy a few inches behind me, I think: "I have to lose him". But what to do? I won't hide in the ladies' room until closing time! I reach the last step and lift my head up. All I remember seeing is a pair of broad shoulders (no... broad! - think bouncer-shaped deltoids) in a blue shirt. And there was my answer. SCAPEGOAT!

(not Bodyguard shown above - but you get the idea)

I quickly looked around and he did not have a girl to his arm. He wasn't particularly physically close to anyone and so I tackled him. I literally bumped straight into his chest, wrapped my right arm around his torso and grabbed his right hand in my left one and quickly begged: "Can you please dance with me... Please?" I don't know if it was the desperation in my eyes or because I hadn't given him any time or, even better, any other option but to dance with me. "Hummm... right. Sure", is basically what he replied to my aggression. When I bumped right into his chest and wrapped my arms around him, it did not matter what he looked like or how old he was. I did not check him out; did not even think twice or wonder if he was my type or not. That was not the point. The idea was not to find a hot thang to flirt with. I needed to escape the Birthday Boy! I had found this lovely pair of shoulders as my rescue team. You go, girl!

Then it dawned on me. What if he is at the club with his girlfriend, whom has possibly gone to the washroom, will come back only to find me wrapped around her man?!? I could get slapped across the back of the head just because I was in desperate need of a way out! Quick! "Are you here with your girlfriend?" He giggles. Good, I look like a moron. "No! I would not have let you do this if I were". Pfew. What if he is on a date? He isn't. He assures me that he is alone, out with a male buddy. Fine. I can now breathe easily. I thank him for allowing me to jump on him and for accepting to dance with me. I try to justify myself by letting him know that I usually don't physically harass men in bars (Good God... what have I done?) and I try to explain that I am running away from a guy that I really don't want anything to do with; a guy who is a bit more persistent than I want him to be. Again, although the level of alcohol in my blood is sufficient for me to know that I will certainly not be driving home, I have a moment of clarity. I physically attacked an innocent man, chose him as my instant bodyguard, and now I am trying to explain how he is saving me from another guy. Now how sweet is that? Who will save him from me is probably what he's wondering right this minute! A nutcase attacked him in the attempt to repulse another man. How attractive is that for a single man?

By some miracle, Birthday Boy has found me. He grabs me by the arm and invites me to follow him for more drinks with his friends. Oh, Birthday Boy, THANK YOU! Thank you for proving to Bodyguard that I truly attacked him for a safety purpose and not for my own naughty-single-gal-out-on-the-town agenda! Bodyguard does not say a word, but does not seem impressed with Bday Boy's behavior. I do not let go of the torso I have come to appreciate in the last three minutes and inform Birthday Boy, as he can see; that I am already dancing with someone and it would be rude of me to just drop my dancing bouncer for drinks with another man. Bday Boy turns around and leaves. I dance with Bodyguard some more. Ten minutes later, I put a dry, but very appreciative, kiss on his shaved head. We dance until closing time.