You know how sometimes when, say, you’re at a restaurant and you can’t figure out whether you want the pecan pie or the double fudge brownie sundae with almond shavings so you eenie meenie mienee moe to decide and when the moe lands on pecan pie you suddenly realize that what you really, really in your deepest heart of hearts wanted but were perhaps too timid to admit was the double fudge brownie sundae with almond shavings?

Well, I sort of felt like that today.

I was walking down Rue du Stand, towards the H&M street (it’s actually the main street in Geneva…main if you’re a shopper, that is…and you shop religiously at H&M...anyway its name changes every five feet, hence my ingenius name for it), with addlebrain, the editor of the mag that decided to dispense with en-dashes altogether (horrified gasp), and despite the fact that he always seems so utterly frazzled and caught by surprise by everything and mumbles in Australian gibberish at a pitch just below the human ear’s capacity for hearing, it suddenly became apparent to me that he was offering me the job of senior writer at the magazine. Senior writer at the magazine. I just like to savor that phrase.

And suddenly the world felt kind of set apart from the moment of the conversation, the people walking by in their pea coats and ogling the watches in the shop windows (honest!) and carrying shopping bags and scurrying to catch the tram and looking like the utterly dashing bankers a good percentage of them seems to be—and I suddenly got extremely cold feet.

This is the job that I had only several weeks ago (before I knew it was up for grabs) been gushing over as My Ideal Job, and now suddenly I could have it, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted it.

I was like, but how will I go surfing?—I don’t even like surfing, by the way. Nothing gets me in a snit like surfing. And then I was like, but what about the dog? ....Am I seriously making career choices based on my boyfriend’s dog?

Anyway, before you want to PUNCH me for flitting off to Europe and landing a fabulous job without even trying (hardly), let me tell you that there’s an extremely good chance that for reasons that cannot be disclosed even to you, O numberless reader, it won’t work out at all. In fact, I’m probably jinxing the hell out of myself by even writing about it, so I better shut the bleep up before some higher power decides to inform the French authorities about my unpaid library fees at the Bibliothèque de Genève when I try to leave the country (which actually would be a problem if I were flying out of Switzerland rather than France—whee!). But you never know. They could be conspiring to relieve me of my devalued U.S. dollars as we speak. Suckers!

By the way, I’m starting to feeeel it.