So Frenchy So...

 Lately my pursuit of the language most commonly associated with romance and seduction has left me with little time for blogs or well, romance and seduction. This is somewhat due to the fact that at upwards of $500 a term, I feel obliged to put in an equal amount of effort, but mostly because I’m a first child and ‘high achiever’; if I fail to feel I’m one of the most accomplished in any learning situation I’m prone to bouts of depression which stem from the questioning of my very reason for being.

And my hard work appears to be paying off. Three months of French lessons and I have mastered the grammar and vocabulary of every non-French speaker’s favourite phrase. I can understand and enunciate individual words rather than blurting out a slurred slab of foreign sounds along to the faint rhythm of ‘Lady Marmalade’. Not that I’ve had an opportunity to do so, but it’s good to be prepared.

It also seems that word of my linguistic prowess has spread.

Last week, I was making lunch in the tiny architectural travesty of a kitchen at work when a colleague joined me. As we dodged around each other, opening cupboards and drawers which require anyone in the immediate vicinity to take a step back (where there isn’t room to do so) we engaged in small talk. Now I should confess that this colleague and I have a bit of a history.

History meaning, in chronological order: Ridiculous drunken dancing (particularly on his part), an almost hook-up, flirtation, dates, not quite sex, the decision to be friends (mine), inappropriate behaviour (mine), misunderstandings, apologies, more drunken dancing followed by attempted seduction (his) and plenty of confusion (for both of us). Just like any working relationship really.

So now almost every exchange between us seems loaded with double meaning despite the fact that ‘Hey can I please borrow a hard drive?’ actually just means ‘can I borrow a hard drive’ and has nothing to do with erections. Sometimes I wonder whether he finds the meanings of our conversations as manifold as I do. Probably not. 

Back in the kitchen my colleague politely enquired about my French lessons. I must have mentioned I was studying the language a month or so ago in a similar encounter, so that wasn’t odd, but then the conversation continued this way:

Me: Really good, thanks. I’m enjoying it a lot.

Him: That’s great. I hear you’re a fast learner.

Me: Oh yeah, well I think I’m finally at a stage where things are starting to click- wait, what? You heard?

Him: I know Adrienne (not her real name).

Me: Really? She’s my new teacher. How do you know her?

Him: We’re going out.

I felt myself blush. My heart was pounding from the effort of moving a considerable amount of blood up into my cheeks. Despite feeling overwhelmed and very conscious of my flushed appearance I tried to assume a composed, nonchalant air as I replied:

Oh that’s great. She has really awesome pants…

[Pause]

Him: Yes… I suppose she does.

And though I can’t remember exactly what happened next, I’m fairly certain the conversation finished there, with over-large smiles and awkward shuffling manoeuvres as we got out each other’s way and I got out of the kitchen.

It was a moment straight from rom com. At best I was an imitation of an off-beat Audrey Tautou character. More than likely though my performance was comparable to Jenifer Aniston playing kooky.

I don’t really have an explanation for my response. I mean, I actually did like her pants (they were these super wide leg culottes in a great pattern...) but of all the things to say about my colleague’s girlfriend, it’s probably quite a way down the list.

Of course, if I really were in a romantic comedy, the answer would be simple. There would be a scene where, over drinks, I would recap the interaction and my sassy BFF confidant would look at me meaningfully. I would realise I still have feelings for him. After some inner turmoil in the second act I would work myself up to go and surprise him with this confession only to accidentally interrupt a seemingly happy moment between he and his French lover. It would take until the end of the third act before all those crossed wires  could be straightened out, but the film would conclude with he and I rightfully in each others’ arms. And just before the credits, perhaps as a song by a newly popular indie band began to play, there would be a scene where my colleague would sweep a French textbook off a desk so that we could make love without fear of paper cuts. What a romp!

But I don’t have feelings for my colleague. I like him, I like him a lot. He’s intelligent and attractive, talented, driven, I enjoy his company and we banter like pros. In fact there is no reason it shouldn’t have worked out between us. No reason at all other than the fact that one evening I discovered I would rather watch the end of a movie I’d seen before and actually own on DVD than have sex with him. Slight problem.

And of course I’m happy for him now that he’s in an apparently happy relationship. I can’t be bitter, it was my choice, right? There was a je ne sais quoi that was notably absent and, rightly or wrongly, I happen to be holding out for an everything. Perhaps the reason for my behaviour then, is simply that sometimes waiting gets a little exhausting and that fully clothed, in close quarters, under the fluros of a kitchenette it’s easy to forget a small but very significant detail. The thing between my colleague and I,  it's not a ‘what could have been’ so much as an ‘if only’.

My rom com however, is not without a happy ending. My French teacher’s man was not for me, her culottes, on the other hand were. I now own a pair of equally awesome pants and they fit perfectly. I just won't be wearing them to work or French class any time soon.