She’s stumbling through Paris tonight, but with a certain grace, as suits her.  She’s got her party hat on, is charming the euro-locals at the bar with a French that has finally surpassed mine, and is, with all certainty, rip-roaring drunk.

She’s my littlest sister, and she’s 21 today.  Twenty-one.  She exists only as a frenchie caricature in my mind, because I just can’t grasp the reality.  I remember so distinctly being 21. I also remember doing things as a twenty-one-year-old that, ahem, no one’s little sister should be allowed to even know about.

Although there’s significantly more fuzz, I also remember the day she was born.  I was in kindergarten, and she was my blue-eyed baby.  Hooray!  You’re 10 today!  I seriously considered sending her a birthday card with this message printed inside.  Behold the power of Hallmark; you, too can reverse time; back-track; take a do-over.  If only it was so simple.

(And seriously?  A 21st birthday in Paris?  Who does that?  How do I know this person?)

In other news, J’s apparently in Nashville this week.  I say “apparently” because it all sort of flew out of nowhere, and as my other sister, the biochemist, oh-so-helpfully pointed out on the phone earlier, I don’t actually know. And thanks, dear.

When I started dating J, he was an attorney in a high-powered firm downtown.  Stable.  Secure. Known.  Earlier this fall, he declared himself miserable, and went to work for a Senator. Starting in about January, he began a tortuous process I can only define as “finding himself.”  Cliché, yes, but hey, if the shoe fits…

On the side, he’s started doing some legal work for a start-up band starring, hilariously, his mandolin teacher. (J’s been playing mandolin for maybe 2 years now.  It’s not something I’m particularly fond of).

He’s started looking into real estate.  He thinks maybe he’ll be a businessman.  In my books, he’s walked the career plank, but rather than furiously and determinedly swimming for shore, he’s splashing around and amusing himself, and wondering if there’s a better beach off in a better direction.

And then I get this call on Sunday. He says he’s leaving his parents’ early and is heading to Nashville.  “I’m going to negotiate a contract for the band,” he said.  He’ll be gone for the week.  Oh really. And I guess work doesn’t mind? You can just write them and say, peace out, I’m driving to Tennessee this week, see you around?

They’ll be really busy, he said, so he may not have time to talk when I call. “I’ll call you when I get time.”  Um. 

From a man who is freaking obsessed with his mobile e-mail (and has been known to regularly check his personal e-mail while we are at restaurants and in church), I have received a whopping ZERO notes of affection/amour/otherwise.  No text messages.  A series of short calls, all late at night. 

Granted, I’m a suspicious person naturally.  It’s an affliction for which I’m a confirmed carrier. The biochemist put it into words, though.  I don’t actually know. It’s not that I doubt, really; it’s more that I fear. I fear that I’m losing touch with who he is at all. 

And now I’m back to googling his ex-live-in girlfriend.  Very. Bad. Behavior.