I want to temporarily see what it's like to be you.
First of all, I really hope my French teacher doesn't read this, because she is who I want to be. Granted, she's French and her English is adorably mal, so even if by some stroke of universal craziness she DID happen upon WMWC, hopefully she wouldn't exactly understand that her and her je ne sais quoi are the reason for my posting. I'd say the odds are slim that she'll see it, so, throwing caution to the wind, I'll take my chances.
Another french women I would like to be.
In typical blog fashion, I'm providing you with a list entitled...
Why I Want to Wake Up, Freaky Friday*-Style, In the Body and Brain of My French Teacher:
*Disclaimer: I hate Freaky Friday. Hate it. I hate any and all movies where the stupid miscommunication scenarios could be solved by a simple "Oh, hey! You're in my body. I'm in yours. Let's just, you know, chill out for a while till we figure this out and not go running around, ruining each other's lives by accident. Whew, good talk. I'm so glad we spoke before zany chaos ensued!"
Apologies. I digress.
THE LIST:
1. My Perfect French Teacher must be close to 6 feet tall and rail thin. Not in a, "Yikes, eat a hamburger way!" but in a, "Look at that fine specimen of beauty who is so sinewy and willow-like I can't take my eyes off of her." My 5 feet, 6 inches pale in comparison.
2. Perfect, porcelain doll skin. With rosy cheeks. To die for.
3. I kid you not - tendrils of curly hair. Like, each piece falls in perfect spirals that, regardless of humidity or temperature, seem to stay completely intact. Sometimes, when she glances down at her lesson plan, a single tendril falls in front of her face. This is going to sound certifiably nuts, but they look like a pasta my mom used to make. A pasta which, after careful research (read: a 2 second Google search) is called cellentani. See below. Oh, except her hair is waist length, and manages to avoid that "I'm home-schooled and my mom trims my bangs and I wear scrunchies" look. How does she do it?
4. The French-ness. Duh. When she speaks English, all her "th" sounds come out like "z"s. One day, she made a mistake on the board. Immediately, she raised her graceful hand to her mouth, eyes wide, and cried out, "Oh, Mon Dieu!" Suddenly, my fervent cries of "Eff my life!" seem so... banal.
5. She wears high heels and pencil skirts and tops that are clearly made by fancy Parisian shirt-makers who specialize in tasteful lace and sparkly little bows. My dirty Converse - hell, even my adorable Anthropologie wear - just don't cut it next to her snazzy ankle boots.
6. She speaks beautiful, perfect, Parisian french. Complete with that thing French people do with their mouths when they say "o." You know, that pouty lip thing that looks like you're about to kiss someone. Starting now, I'm practicing in the mirror. No literally, I just did it. It's not as good as hers.
7. Her Perfect French Childhood. Okay, this is more fantasy now than reality, but I just imagine her as an enfant, running through the halls of some antique-filled French home screaming "Maman, maman!" Complete with the tendrils, of course, only tied with little pink bows. Compare and contrast: I used to wear leggings and Wile E. Coyote sneakers and was totally denied the experience of even having those frilly white fold-over socks. Plus, my hands were always covered in magic marker. I bet she never had dirty hands.
I could go on for a while and add a few more reasons, but I think those will suffice. The truth is, I'm not obsessed with my French teacher (whose name, by the way, sounds like some sort of wonderful fairy-tale creature I want to name my first born daughter after) but I am feeling a little insecure and wishing I could walk a few miles (or kilometers...) in her black platform ankle boots.
In all honesty, I may be using Perfect French Teacher as a means of escapism. It is becoming increasingly clear to me that no matter how skinny I am at the moment, no matter how clear my skin, no matter how chic my new haircut, and no matter how good a person I try to be, I can't immediately remedy the situation with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, which can only be defined as I Am Being Strung Along Whether I Like It Or Not. Which, you know, essentially sucks. But what I CAN do, somehow, is instill a little bit of a mademoiselle's je ne sais quoi in my own life, and perhaps channel Perfect French Teacher. I don't have to incorporate "Oh Mon Dieu!" into my everyday vocabulary (can you say prétentieux?) but I may just walk down the street imagining I am a tall, willowy, beautiful thing and that every American man I pass is ogling me... but only in that unattainable, French perfection sort of way. It's a coping mechanism, and mark my words, it WILL work.
From now on, I wear nothing but ankle boots.
Update: I don't own ankle boots. Now what?
No comments:
Post a Comment