Mormon or French?

Just a few weeks ago, I said that I would regard my love life in the following way: Mormon about my future, French about my past.

Looking back on my former love life, it wasn't terribly French. It was more like a repressed victim of Catholic school education, who tries to swear up and down they are saved after every new affair and then blames each ex for her ruination.

But I swore I was changed yet again, and would be like a Mormon about my next relationship.

And found myself in one that breaks every single one of the rules I've always set for myself.

So much for a French past, and an un-French present.

Never before have I ever conducted a third date in a brilliant eccentric's unmade apartment, discussing philosophy in the middle of the night, on a mattress on the floor. The only thing missing would have been an ashtray full of cigarette butts next to the bed.

Even more French is the fact that I have absolutely no regrets regardless of whatever happens, and will look on the evening fondly for the rest of my life. It will probably be memorialized in a short story or memoir one day either as the beginning of a brilliant collaboration, or a sweet interlude, or a scene for a story.

I think I am a jack-Mormon about my past, French about my present. Who knows what the future holds. I strive for Tibetan, but that's the subject of another post.