My husband works for an energy company headquartered in Paris, with a substantial hub in Houston, Texas. He has worked for this company since he graduated from college and loves it with a passion that I have never been able to experience myself in my career, or even begin to explain to others, it is rare that anyone loves their job as much as he does. It's the reason we live in Texas, it's the reason we
stay in Texas, it is the reason I can live happily here, so far removed from our family and friends. Someday I will rehash our first relationship, but today I will just say that there was always a chance that we would be transferred, maybe temporarily, and perhaps permanently, but when you agree to marry a person working for this company, and often, any energy-based company, you generally accept a few things about the life you will live, and one of them is that no matter where you are, or what you're doing, there may be a chance that tomorrow you may wake up and get a call that rocks your very familiar, very humid, world.
We are moving to Paris. Husband got a promotion, and we have a three year assignment.
"And you can't tell anyone," says Husband. You see, the thing about corporate transfers is, nothing is certain until it is certain. So, there is a lot of waiting, like, months of waiting for the grinding wheels of progress to confirm what we think is about to happen. And the waiting is annoying, but no problem, if say, you're waiting for the deli to finish making your sandwich, or for your photobook to arrive in the mail, I mean, how long could it possibly take, right? A long, freaking time.
While you wait, feel free to obsess to the point of hallucination about ALL THE THINGS. After the initial unabashed glee at the prospect of living in Paris, oh my gosh, Paris! Wine, cheese, chocolate, bread, are there any more important food groups as these? Museums! Real museums, with art! Nice weather! Perfect weather, with the walking and the strolling and seeing of the things. After all of that, days later, the reality of the logistics begin to set in. Although it doesn't, for me, detract from the idea of being Parisians, it is enough to keep me up at night thinking. Where will we live? How will we live? Where will M go to school? What is that going to be like? Can we bring the dog? What happens to my Stevie Nicks tickets for the December show? Do they have peanut butter in France? How will I see the final season of Mad Men? Will all French people think that I am demented because I am fat, or just some? How much do text messages cost to/from the US? I'm only halfway through my braces treatment, what will I do? We've already paid for so much of M's school next year, do we get our money back? Should I send Christmas presents home to California now, 5 months early, or wait until it costs 6 times as much from Paris? How in the world will I make it through a 9 hour flight with our two year old, and, oh yeah, I should learn French.
And so my friends, we wait. Wait for the offer letter from the company, wait for further instructions from the woman that Husband is replacing, wait for all the things.
