Paris Really Wasn’t Yesterday

Jul 23, 2015 by

          “Oh, it’s July,” one of the guys at the front desk of my gym said as he corrected the June date he had just written, shaking his head in disbelief. “I keep thinking it’s still June.”

          “I keep thinking it’s still September,” I said. “I still feel like I’m on the verge of Paris.”

          “You’re way off,” he laughed.




          I’m just going to keep saying it until it stops blowing my mind: I can’t believe Paris wasn’t yesterday. Last July to August felt longer than fall to present. My warped sense of time surely has something to do with my perspective. Since crying at the Eiffel Tower, I’ve been progressing. Last summer, I was waiting.

          I was thinking about this last night at Taste of Jazz as I mentally travelled back one year to Taste of Jazz 2014. In contrast to last year, this year’s event was dead. There were fewer food trucks and fewer people, but I felt more content. Last July, I was hurt to have been recently rejected. I took myself out on a date to Taste of Jazz to help counter the feeling. It was as distracting as it was fun and empowering. Last night, however, I didn’t need a distraction. I was already at peace.

          Unlike a year ago, I no longer feel the need to pass time while waiting for someone to reappear. Maybe that’s why time has been on fast-forward since the fall. I’m experiencing it relative to last summer, when I was wishing it away. Because I kept being told that in time I wouldn’t care about him, I wanted time to elapse. I hated that it was a factor in moving on, because I couldn’t make it go faster. In refusal to sit back and let time take its course, I did a lot to expedite the process, but time ultimately did a lot too.

          The more time that went by without him, the more I realized I didn’t want him. I was doing much better in his absence. I was gaining enough space from what happened to ease my need to know his perspective on it. As time continued to pass, our history became more and more irrelevant to my present, making the whys I would never get the answers to less and less sought-after. Essentially, with the passage of time came closure, which it turned out I didn’t need him to get. I just needed enough distance from him to tie up the loose ends on my own. I needed time to be ready to close the story of he and I that I kept prolonging in my head.

          Upon arrival to Taste of Jazz last night, I couldn’t fathom that it had already been a year since my date with myself. Upon departure, I felt like it had been longer. Physically being in the same spot I had been in a year ago while mentally far from it seemed to revert my concept of time. It’s been well over nine months since I cried at the Eiffel Tower. At some point since then, the tears over him stopped. At some point since then, the hope for him died. At some point since then, I moved on. Paris really wasn’t yesterday, I acknowledged. Yesterday, I didn’t want him.

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