Accidentally French . . . In a way

Like many educated, interested, fashion-inclined young American women, I am obsessed with most things French. I spend not an insignificant amount of time imagining my French self. Would my style be less studied? Would I be less naive and more nonchalant? Would I be taller and have thinner thighs? Would I be intimately familiar with even more ways to wear a scarf? Maybe most importantly, would Charlotte Gainsbourg and I be friends? I like to think so. Imagine though I might, I have come to terms with the fact that I am essentially American; wide-eyed and friendly to strangers. Perhaps the fact that most belies my non French-ness is that I am not a dedicated smoker, puffing away without guilt, safe in the knowledge that if this pleasure doesn't do me in, something will.

Fortunately for my Franco-aspirations, a cousin of mine married a French girl and they live together in Paris. Paris!! That infinitely faceted, outrageously expensive jewel of a city that calls out to dreamy American girls like me. The irony that pervades this multi-cultural union is that Nathalie, the Frenchwoman, loves America. Imagine! She thinks American girls have better skin, are nicer, and aren't afraid to get a good tan.

There is one thing though that Nathalie does not love about America. She told me that the first time she came to the U.S. she felt completely ugly because the men on the street didn't verbally reflect her lovliness back to her. No one proposed marriage or swore that he would most certainly perish if she walked away without him. No one grabbed his heart as she walked by and compared her to the fairest bloom blushing under the sun's sweet rays. Together, Nathalie and I lamented that the best many American men can manage is a leer. Having been to Paris a handful of times, I can confirm the intoxicating, confidence boosting effect that French men have on the ladies. Could this be the root cause of the French woman's je ne sais qua?

Maybe it was the decidedly French manner in which I prepped myself for the day that led to the accidental echo of the particularly French phenomenon described above. Late for Mass, I skipped the shower and indulged in a lavish spritzing of a daytime appropriate eau. The pixied hair, though not dirty, appeared so (in that perfectly non-chalant French way) due to the bed-heading it had received. Time allowed only for a smudging of mascara. Blush, normally a daily superstar, sat forlorn in the vanity, surely disappointed by disuse. The ensamble, I must say, was well thrown together, acheiving a tiny triumphant American echo of that "tossed together" yet polished look that French women are so good at and for which they are universally envied. I attribute my coup to the quality of the elements of which the outfit was composed. Low, gray Converse Chuch All-Stars; a smiple sheath with a small black tribal pattern traveling down a warm blue background all the way to the ankles; the weathered brown belt; and, an ironically American touch, the perfectly fitted and perfectly worn dark denim jacket! Simple gold hoop earrings, a gold bangle -- a childhood gift from my father, and a baby pearl necklace served as the simple accoutrements.

Every inch the natural born American citizen, I was booking it to Mass, when a man on a dirtbike, procured from who knows what rural, broken-down, machinery filled front yard and appropriated for an illegal urban street life, zoomed past me. As he zoomed past, he said, "Hey Baby." Decidedly not French. I ignored him and kept up my hurried pace. Also decidedly not French. Mr. Dirtbike persevered though, turning his rickety ride around! He pulled up, engine sputtering, and smiling asked, "So you married and all that?" The sun bounced playfully off of his gold teeth. I smiled and said that yes I was married and on my way to church. He looked forlorn, but stayed sputtering in the middle of the road as I walked on, feeling a little closer to my French self.