Those times when we fall

The story has been told many times to my friends, but this particular memory, besides putting a smile on my face each time I recall it, has a few layers of meaning. It was a shifting point in some personal beliefs and it has been the trigger for a series of lessons which I still value. It also stands as a token of appreciation toward an exceptional person, someone I’m glad I met. I think this story deserves to be written down.

6 months before that date happened I had been through a painful breakup after a relationship which lasted almost a decade. My first dates in Luxembourg have been epic as well, but they were short attempts which did not lead to anything.

I met a guy on Tinder who was working a few streets away from me. The first time we met we had a 5 minutes chat and none of us was impressed. But one Friday evening I wanted to go to a theatre play. It was a spontaneous decision. I asked all my friends and no one was available, so same day, I turned to the guy from Tinder. He said “ok”, obviously not convinced by the play, nevertheless he was curious. So we set to have a drink and go to the theatre after.

That Friday was coming after a calm period at work, but as it happens usually, on Friday afternoon some unexpected shit hit the fan and I got a big amount of things to do in a short time.  Plus it was a casual Friday and I hadn’t planned to go on a date so, I was dressed like on laundry day. I had escaped the office without having time to refresh or put any make-up. I was afraid that I smelled like sweat.

So I came to the appointment all pissed and totally unprepared. That’s when the magic happened. The evening turned into a rather pleasant conversation, then into a very funny theatre performance then, without even noticing I was inviting him at my place for a limoncello.
The rest of the evening was even more unexpected for both sides. In between two limoncellos it occurred to me that I wasn’t even shaved, not even the armpits, but, as I rapidly found out, when one hasn’t have sex in a few months one can get very quickly over these details.

What followed was a hell of a night. Saturday passed and by Sunday I started to get impatient. I didn’t care that I had to do the first step but I had to have again what I got the night before, and even better, if that was even possible.

So on Sunday I called for another date. I called in a course of a sports tournament, but he was willing to pick me up directly after. This time we settled for a dinner.

As soon as I finished texting, I jumped in the bathroom where I spent half of day getting the best out of me.
This time I got rid of all the unwanted hair of my body. One could have skied on my armpits. I covered myself in all the creams and beauty products I had and applied a coffee gommage. I could see my skin glowing in the mirror.
I did my hair. I put on perfume, and this very expensive lingerie I had bought on sales (initial cost 70 euros for a pair of panties). And by the way ladies, just for the record, never buy sexy underwear for a man because the most successful will still be the 3 euro red panties from H&M.
I’ve put on my leopard dress and my snake shoes and went on the second date. I felt sexy, I felt unstoppable, wild, the leopardess unleashed. Nothing, but nothing in the world could have stopped me from getting lucky again.

When I got to the car, the man was wearing a T shirt and jeans, which was kind of normal as my call had arrived during a tournament. That didn’t make me feel less sexy, especially that he was obviously impressed.

He suggested the fancy Essenza for dinner, and he swore that, as an accustomed of the place he was sure that it was open on Sundays. Of course it wasn’t.
We went through the old town looking for an open restaurant. It was autumn. It was cloudy. It started to rain.
In seconds, from the wild leopardess I turned literally in a wet pussy.
By the time we got to Chigerri my hair was a mess, I was freezing and dreading that the rain spoiled the mood for a lucky night.
After a warm dish and a glass of wine, it got better. I remember very well the discussion that I had that evening at Chigerri. It was quite deep, we talked about our views on love and relationships. Then we started to make jokes, and, as two nights before, we started to feel comfortable.
And so, when we walked out of the restaurant, the perspectives for the rest of the evening were looking bright again. I walked in power on the wet terrace and then…
I barely did a step on the bloody terrace (all wet from the rain) and I slipped.
Now, I have to admit, I am not a very sporty person, but that was the closest I got to performing a full split. One leg went forward and the other behind, I heard my stockings cracking, my dress came up compressing under my breasts, and I felt how I was swiping the wet terrace of Chiggeri with my 70 euros panties and my arse. In the fall, I tried to hold on the closest thing and so I found myself with my arm to the elbow in the earth in a pot of decorative trees, while I was making clumsy moves to try to get back on my feet without succeeding.
My date was asking me if I was hurt, he was concerned because the fall had produced quite a sound.
I wasn’t hurt, except in my pride.
This was when I had, like in a film, a vision of myself from above. Well done: all this efforts to end with my legs spread on the terrace and my arm in a pot of flower, the opposite of sexy, class or whatever I have been trying to be that evening.
I had several choices: to end the evening alone and in embarrassment, to play the victim and limp my way to the car, or to let go of what I was feeling inside. And what I was feeling inside was this volcano of laughs that just exploded. I think they were heard up to Urban.
I obviously chose the wisest option because, after my laughing tornado, it turned out that a pair of ripped stockings can do more than expensive lingerie.
That date didn’t lead to a long term relationship. The simplified version is that I left that man for another man. Who left me for another woman. Who left him, probably, for another man. Who probably… never mind. It’s a good example of how Karma works.
Nevertheless, what I experienced that evening, was exceptional: that was the first time when I acknowledged that I was beginning to take myself less seriously. It was also a time of transformation. I was becoming more confident, I wasn’t afraid to look in within anymore,  I was healing. For those who don’t know me, the woman writing this lines, was once a mountain of low self-esteem. Or rather in the Marriane Grotto of low self-esteem.
The thing is that to get out of that Grotto, you have to learn how to fall. I was about to write gracefully but let’s face it: there is no grace in looking  like a lousy leopard print mop on the terrace of Chiggeri. You just need to know how to fall and raise.

A new blog is born


I started to write a blog when I came to Luxembourg. I wrote in my native language. It was my personal space where I was sharing my experiences of living abroad for those whom I don’t get to see that often.

It was fun to write, it was something that I enjoyed. I wrote about trivial things: how I arrived here, what I found interesting, my trips, and short attempts of clumsy creative writing. Nothing extremely serious or important, but still a piece of me put out there in the public space. Well, nothing important in appearance. Some good things happened thanks to it. I own my blog at least one friend and a big bunch of courage.

I stopped a year ago because some events diminished my mood for sharing my thoughts.

Then, following a chain of not so pleasant events, my life took a twist and I experienced a series of changes. One was that my social life took a boost and I met many people from all over the world living in Luxembourg, so I decided to write in English and maybe to expand my audience to people outside my circle.

Off course, I procrastinated, because I couldn’t find the right name, the right rhythm, because I was afraid that no one will read it, because I didn’t have the banner that I imagined it would have, in short I postponed it for one year.

Until one day I decide to screw it all, and just put it out there: bad or good name, no banner, no imagine, just my thoughts.

Because it is mostly about me, about how I see life, how I live in this country with contradictory faces and how I perceive the light/dark side of Luxembourg, while exposing part of me.

So here’s how Luxposure is born.