When a woman is tired of Paris, she's tired of life

I once read on a pillow (micro-literature, friends, is my new form of intellectuality) that when a woman gets tired of going to Paris, it means she's tired of life in general. How true, probably not applicable to Parisian women, but for the rest of us, absolutely. The thing is, The Consort gave me a classic "pack your bags, we're going away for the weekend, I'm not telling you where, just pack them and let's go" and I screamed and ran out like a madwoman. Now that a third member of the pack is on the way, we have to take advantage of opportunities to travel light, although seeing the scene I caused on the flight back, I don't think the heiress could make things worse. 

It turns out that between the heat, the cramped space, my belly, and the stupid tart-baking girls behind me chattering for two hours of the flight (at least three rows of the plane heard that Sof's grandfather, the tart-baking abbreviation for Sofia, takes Viagra at 91 years old) I felt faint and caused panic not only within myself but also among the flight attendant crew. Quite a scene. And there are still people who wonder why there's first class on planes, friends, it's clear: to ethnically cleanse the tart-baking girls from the rest of us. The tart-baking girls are those friends between 25 and 45 years old who travel alone, uninhibited, who, away from their much-commented-on husbands or boyfriends, do crazy things like photograph every second with an analog camera (pure abandon), buy three hundred hideous friendship bracelets for each wrist (if they're prayer books, even better), and talk (shout loudly) wherever they go about their tart recipes (not with puff pastry, please, but with thin filo), their residency practices ("I consider myself a good person, I don't know why they have to talk about me behind my back" — I'll tell you why: because you're insufferable), and their disapproving family practices (we refer to the story of the bonobo grandfather). If you get stuck with them on a plane, you're dead, you want to jump out mid-flight, like the monkey in the photo I found near the Louvre.

And so The Consort took me to Paris, fortunately, I'm not tired of life yet, although I must say that I am tired of uploading photos to the La Condesa online store, oh my, what a beating I've given myself this afternoon. I've changed photos, completed descriptions, and uploaded the missing models from the collection, like the Madrid coat I'm wearing in the photo, a delight for the temperatures arriving and the rounded shapes I'm acquiring; it seems I had a premonitory eye when I designed it months ago. 

What about you, have you had a close encounter with the tart-baking girl experience?

Hugs,

La Condesa, silent on planes