Well I never. Before I start, you tell me, just what the hell is appropriate attire for 7 straight hours of italicizing French words in the manuscript from hell? One word sums it up, right? Comfortable, right? So on Friday, when I had to tear myself away from the blook (henceforth known as the goddamn blook that may never actually be finished) for my weekly appointment with Mademoiselle Elodie, I didn’t bother to change.

I thought it was a perfectly acceptable ensemble—black T-shirt, black Lululemon yoga pants and warm, cozy socks. Okay. The shirt, a tad too small and faded from too many washings; the pants, pilled with an ever so slight crust of mud on the hems; the socks, black polar fleece with purple toes and heels and huge white stars placed randomly for just the right amount of whimsy. Add in a pair of Naot orthopedic shoes, an unruly mullet and skin so dry you can write your name in it, well, I suppose she had a point.

What was her point? I often get more than just physio from the lovely Elodie. Every session we teach each other some new words. Friday I learned moche. Elodie saw the socks and then proceeded to look me over with the eyes of une femme française. Then out it came, moche, also known as ugly, tacky, scabby, you get the picture. I won’t tell you the words I taught her.

I used comfort as my defense, that I was working like a maniac to meet a deadline. She told me that she was also working, that she was very comfortable in her gorgeous gray French flowy cardigan, fabulous necklace and snappy boots. Oh who am I kidding? She’s right. My Big French Adventure is all about letting go—job, possessions, a way of life. Who knew I’d be letting myself go as well? I fully admit that the situation has gotten out of hand.

Normally I wouldn’t give a merde, but Elodie said something else as she recoiled from my socks. “Ah, les Canadiennes.” Jaysus god alive. I forgot that I’m the only Canadian in these parts. I forgot that I was representing my country. Maybe Elodie thinks all Canadian women let themselves go to this degree! Well now, that just won’t do. It’s one thing to let yourself go, it’s another thing to let down a whole country of beautiful, stylish women, even if they do have to wear wool toques and non-skid snow boots for half the year.

I can’t have the French thinking that my current state of disrepair represents all gals of the North. So there it is. The latest intelligence reveals that I’m a threat to national security. They allow women in combat now and I’m prepared for battle. It might be decidedly un-Canadian, but I’m declaring war on my raggedy self. Cover me girls, I’m going in.

 

 

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