Merci, Paris!

1.      The French Blonde would like to share a story about Paris and self-esteem.

     

       A few years ago, the FB was introduced, through mutual friends, to a venture capitalist type. As they both happened to be in Paris at the same time, Mr. VC suggested they meet for drinks. It was a casual, informal invitation, but there was a hint of flirtation, and their mutual friend had stated that Mr. VC was an interesting, intelligent person who'd lived through tragedy and emerged a stronger and more determined person. (The FB loves stories like this. They recall TV movies of her childhood.) 

       So, the FB put on some nice clothes. By "nice clothes," the FB means a plum, ruffled blouse (evocative of Tom Ford for Gucci but not so wench-y), a narrow black skirt, over the knee boots (flat), black stockings, and a fitted jacket. It looked pulled together, not over-the-top, and perfectly appropriate for drinks at a palace hotel in Paris in the middle of winter. 

       Now, the French Blonde is a cosmopolitan, sophisticated woman with a graduate degree and publications to her credit. She is nothing to be sneezed at, but she’s not built of titanium, either. She met Mr. VC in the bar, where he proceeded to check his crackberry every two minutes, occasionally grinning and laughing quietly to himself as he responded to texts. This gave the FB ample opportunity to observe him: medium height, handsome, well-dressed, beautiful skin.  

       However, the FB is decidedly Victorian about manners, and Mr. VC's constant checking of his device--on a Sunday night, no less, when no markets were open and no deals were closing, at least to the FB's knowledge--was just rude, not to mention obsessive-compulsive. When the FB tartly suggested that Mr. VC was perhaps a little too attached to his device, perhaps to the detriment of his ability to experience life in the real world, Mr. VC suddenly became irate and self-justifying, insisting that his interpersonal relationships were much improved by his use of said device. 

       You may have realized that the FB was no longer even remotely interested in ever seeing Mr. VC again, mostly because it was boring hanging out with him.

       Mr. VC then told her about his 23 year-old girlfriend and how quarters could be bounced off her ass.  

       The FB doubted at any point in her life if quarters could be bounced off her ass (not her best asset, though fairly inoffensive). More to the point, it made her sad that she had spent any part of her evening with a man who would actually refer to both his girlfriend's ass and quarters in the same sentence, let alone to a perfect stranger. The bad feeling stayed with her. Though she realized that Mr. VC was a.) an ass, b.) insecure, and c.) an insecure ass, she got glum. She thought about how hard it was to maintain one's self-esteem in our society, how peoples' values could be so flimsy and superficial, and how the world was unkind. 

       This operatic feeling of doom lasted until the next morning, when the FB realized she was in Paris. Why, yes, she lives in Paris! And Paris is actually kind to women. In fact, Paris loves women! In Paris, one has only to ask and the city will provide! Granted, one must know how to ask and one must be gracious and accepting of what it provides, but it may be relied upon!

       The FB decided to cheer herself up instead of sinking into mopiness. She mounted an anti-moping campaign. She wore sheer black stockings, heels, and short skirts every day for the next two weeks. To go to Monoprix, to the boulangerie, to meet friends for a movie, to window-shop in the Marais, and to buy butter cookies at La Grande Epicerie. The FB also wore makeup, not just her eyeliner and Burt's Bees raisin lip balm, but mascara! Red lipstick! The kind that must be reapplied using an antique compact! Not once did she wear jeans and sneakers or sneak out of the house trying to look anonymous. No, the FB made going out a production. 

       And the City of Paris thanked her for it: plumbers unloading supplies from vans smiled and complimented her: "Mademoiselle, vous etes magnifique!" Strange men handed her flowers. Men opened and held doors, others asked her to tea, still others flirted with her at the newstand. Men were gallant and she basked in it: she grinned and smiled and thanked them; she flirted back and flitted away. She knew this would not happen in LA, so she made full use of it. It required some intentionality on her part, but surprisingly enough, it wasn't difficult.

T     This happened a few years ago, and the French Blonde still leaves the house wearing yoga pants and sneakers and no makeup from time to time. Sometimes going to the market is just about going to the market. But other times, she rises to the occasion: a beautiful day, the unexpected around the corner, and a city full of Parisians.