36 is the new 30

I have been reborn. I am now 30 years old.

One of the fun things about moving to a foreign country is that nobody knows a thing about you: whether you're married or single, gay or straight, an ebullient drunk or as dull as dishwater. There have been so many times when a well-meaning colleague or a friend of a friend has told me that I can ride the Velibs for practically free! Or that I must try Pierre Hermé! Rather than try explaining in my broken French that I have already developed a love-hate relationship with the Velibs and that Pierre has been my man for over a year now, I just politely nod and say "oui, oui." This has become my mode of conversing: just agree with everything the other person is saying.

But as if everyone had placed bets on the age of the silly American girl, I've been getting asked a lot lately: "Quel age as-tu?"

And my vanity kicks in. When I tell people that I'm 36, and they respond that they thought I was 30, it gives me a secret thrill. (It's the sunscreen, I'm telling you.)

But I figure I can change my age to 30 because that's really where I am in my life. I'm still single, searching for a partner in crime, taking a break from reality to live this dreamy interlude in Paris, and still trying to make it big. I still need my 30s to figure some shit out. I always thought that I'd be married with a kid and a beach house by the time I was 36. My mom had already bore two kids and a divorce when she was 36. All I'm doing is eating, writing and dreaming, and washing it all down with French wine.

So, yeah, I'm definitely 30. And don't forget it.