52 - The Heat Pen Effect

Every couple has their routines. For some, it’s true crime series on Sunday nights. For us, it’s going out with my husband’s Tinder dates. Romance, after all, is what you make of it.

By now, it’s become a thing that I eventually meet the mister’s ladies—and since I’m curious by nature, it has turned into a rather entertaining hobby. 

Secretly, though, I suspect my husband is pursuing a very different, somewhat devious plan. No, he’s not trying to subtly maneuver us toward another threesome. Much worse: I think he’s deliberately creating regular situations in which I’m forced to speak French—since I’ve been successfully avoiding that language while living here. And that's despite the fact that I love two Frenchmen. With each of them, I speak a different language: German with one, English with the other. And then there are the others, with whom I don't speak French either—but I do practice.

This meeting, however, was planned as a completely sex-free rendezvous with Antonia—the indecisive Italian woman with excellent taste in men. After all, she had previously been married to a copy of the mister. And even though she had single-handedly ruined his flawless success rate, the two of them still met and wrote regularly—this time in the forest, with company.

Antonia had been announced as an outdoorsy, sporty Duracell bunny with freshly inserted batteries. 

We got along instantly—but her best friend and I clicked even better. So the two of us walked ahead, while the mister and the athletic powerhouse lagged behind. Apparently, jogging through Paris does not automatically prepare you for combat with roots, insects, and uneven terrain.

I was thoroughly amused when, after just half an hour, she’d already injured her finger—so badly that she had to complain loudly about it. It felt like hiking through the forest with an adult version of our daughter. Luckily, Mom was prepared and had an ice pack with her. A minor detail: she was actually the older one of the two of us while we strolled through the woods with the young spring chickens. The ice pack—originally meant for chocolate temperature stabilization on top of the muffins—was quickly repurposed for drama queen emergencies. 

Over the next hour, she began complaining about the tropical air temperatures—it was a dry 27 degrees Celsius with a breeze. And after nearly three hours, just as we were approaching the parking lot again, she got stung by an insect. 

Fortunately, I had my heat pen with me—the Swiss Army knife of those who don’t hunt in the forest but are hunted. I treat insect bites of all kinds with that thing, anywhere, anytime.

In the end, my entire arsenal of unexpected equipment had provided both amusement and comfort—and I had thoroughly entertained her best friend, who, for once, wasn’t alone with her melodrama. And although he had to speak French with me for four hours—or perhaps precisely because he had to—he was so fired up by the end that he gave me his number. 

Less than 24 hours later, I already had a picture of his heat pen.

I wasn't sure whether to be proud of my French or concerned about my reputation.

Either way, Tinder remains one of the place where lending someone first aid equipment can apparently count as flirting.