Life's Finer Things

My aunt recently wrote a piece for a women’s blog discussing what she so appropriately coined the juicy/dry continuum. Let me elaborate. The idea is that in the world of women (sorry guys, bear with me for a second), each one of us falls somewhere in between juicy and dry. Those on the juicy end tend to be self-confident and proud, regardless of size, shape, color, etc… The women on the drier end of things are more timid and conservative in their behavior, body language, whatever.

As a member of the girls’ team (down with the dudes) I think this continuum is pretty accurate. We all know someone who knows how to flaunt it; she might not even be super model gorgeous but she knows how to light up a room with her personality and she isn’t afraid to let it all hang out (maybe even literally…).

Moving forward in this seemingly random voyage into my ridiculous thoughts. Placing myself on this continuum is no easy task. On one hand, I tend to be loud and goofy and don’t have much of a problem just being me. On the other hand, a part of me has always lived so drily. I have always been the one looking ravenously at the girl enjoying a full-fat mocha at Starbucks as I sip my coffee and Sweet-and-Low. I never wanted to get ice cream with my sisters in the summer because “I just didn’t need those extra calories”….and until a few months ago (with the exception of maybe some repressed childhood events) I had never eaten a fast food hamburger!!! It’s almost like treason, huh?

So where am I going with this? Living in France has completely evolved this dry side of me. Hopefully you all aren’t sitting there snickering and thinking “yea, we can tell by your facebook pictures that you’re living pretty juicily, lard ass”… ( I mean, I still make an effort to work out. An effort.) With the New Year and all that jazz, I have been trying to evaluate what I have learned so far and what else I want to get out of my time here. At first I was a little disappointed. I just kept thinking, “well, uh, I have learned French and the names of all the bars in the 5^th and well…that’s it”. After reading my aunt’s piece however, I began to realize that the lessons I will be able to take away from this experience translate to much more than just some skill I can write on my resume (or with which I can impress a French guy). Learning to be happy—what the French call être bien dans sa peau; literally to be good/feel good in one’s skin—with the person I am is a lesson whose benefits I will continue to reap for the rest of my life.

How did living as an au pair do such wonders you might (or might not) be asking yourself; well it sure as hell wasn’t those seemingly endless nights of being on the verge of tears while simultaneously cooking a French meal, teaching Eliott English and making sure Zoe didn’t overflow the bathtub that did it for me. There is something about the quality of life in France, however, that gives me a greater appreciation for living and therefore for myself. People here take time to savor (and of course I am generalizing, but for the most part it’s true) every little thing. When it’s sunny out, I notice that people take time out of their day to go sit in the park; no one in my house would ever think of scarfing a meal at the counter in record time; and, as you may very well know, the French allot a LOT of time for vacation. It’s the little things, but when they add up, they make quite a significant difference in the way one lives.

Take, for example, the issue that started this whole blog. After dinner this evening, I decided to make myself a hot chocolate using real creamy-delicious french dark chocolate. Yes, it was decadent. And perhaps a little overboard. As I sat in bed drinking my liquid heaven, I thought about the pre-Paris me. I literally would have thrown myself from a moving vehicle before drinking something so absurdly rich and caloric. At the same time though, pre-Paris me looked the same, weighed the same, and yet still spent so much time hating and depriving herself. I’m not sure what kind of miraculous transformation took place, but somewhere along the way, I started to relish in the fabulous things life had to offer (particularly those food related things as that is [disclaimer: fat kid comment ensues] one of my true passions) instead of making them forbidden. When I stopped criticizing myself and denying myself of the truly wonderful things life had to offer—food and otherwise—I learned to enjoy. Just be and live and really love.

So the moral of the story? If you’re ever in Paris and see some crazy curly-headed girl in line at Mcdonald’s, well you’re right, it probably is me. And I’m going to order a hamburger, bitches.