Femme
There’s a scene in 2 Days in Paris where the male lead, played by a hilarious, hypochondriac Adam Goldberg, walks into his girlfriend’s aged Paris pied-a-terre and gasps at the mold growing on the shower walls due to a leak that possibly dates to the French Revolution. He asks, “What the fuck is that? Is that black mold? The deadliest fungus known to man?”
His girlfriend is played by the brilliant and talented Julie Delpy. She defends the mold and says something like, “It’s not black, it’s green. Look at it, it’s green, like blue cheese. It’s probably good for you even.”
This is the beginning of a film (ruckusly vying to be my favorite) where throughout, Delpy deftly articulates a French female persona that is outspoken and witty, making her seem carefree and sexy, where in fact she’s intelligent and deep as Sartre and de Beauvoir after midnight.
She expresses her depth and social consciousness via heated political arguments with cab drivers, public outbursts of blame to former boyfriends, and guilt-laden confessions of using toilet paper when there are so many other needs in this world.
Delpy wrote, directed, starred-in, and co-produced the original score for the movie. I adore her for this. ADORE.
Watching the movie by myself is pleasure enough, but 2 Days in Paris is also the funniest movie I’ve watched with Robin. Not that he’s ever had a problem accepting my family, but the movie softly illuminates, like a streetlamp along the steps to Montmartre, why I’m the way I am and that my mom is really quite normal. (In another laugh-out-loud scene, the French mother walks in on Delpy and Goldberg having sex and asks if they have any laundry she can do for them. Yep, this happened to us, except my mom saw more, so had to back out of the bedroom and ask about the laundry when we emerged later that morning.)
Since I was born in the US, along with all the American freedoms I’m fortunate to have, I also have the freedom to choose which parts of my heritage I adopt and which I eschew.
Home:
I promise my shower is clean. Like a proper American mother, I have bleach spray and Clorox wipes and stain remover and I use them with abandon. My house is organized, vacuumed, wiped down and mostly decluttered.
However, I refuse to feel unreasonably pressured to make my home perfect, as in properly accessorized and decorated, and in keeping up with people who are good at those things. I do love a beautiful house, with coordinated throw pillows, shiny wood floors, crisp-white trims and kitchen counter space for more than one cook. But even if I had the money, it’s just not a priority. That part of my brain (the French part) isn’t wired to care that much. I’d rather read or write or watch a movie or see a friend or think.
Food:
The non-fat, fake food, fad diet, obsessive way of eating is entirely unappealing. Over the years I thankfully and deliciously assumed the French Girl’s diet. To me it’s defined by real food, add butter, hold the sugar. Unprocessed, unpackaged, seasonal variety, add extra fat to everything, and only eat the highest quality desserts or none at all. Yes, one can be snotty about dessert, and one gets used to it quickly.
Clothes:
Shopping for clothes bores me to tears. I’m disappointed by what’s out there and I don’t have time anyway. I want to give it up. So recently I embarked on a Wardrobe Simplification Project (WSP). I’ve narrowed my clothes to a few simple pieces that essentially all look the same, but fit like bespoke basics. I accessorize these simple pieces with scarves, yoga and attempted wit (the scarves being the only consistent and successful part).
Parisian women have always been known for their style, fashion, elegance, or an effortless combination of the three. But I think the modern French woman prefers simplicity above all. Because to think clearly about what’s important to her, or to think in any higher degree at all, she must simplify wherever she can. Of course she wants to look nice and be desired, but she knows that what she wears is a miniscule part of who she is.
I wish I could adopt other ways of the French woman, like being more outspoken, more confident, less timid, and less worried about the imperfections of myself and my life. I’d love to more naturally embrace an uninhibited joie de vivre that for now takes 3 glasses of Bordeaux to achieve. Maybe it's just a matter of time.
Which takes me to my favorite Frenchy philosophy to adopt: The idea that women get better as they age and become more of what I describe above. That a woman’s 20’s and 30’s were just practice for her 40’s and 50’s. That her lifetime peaks, gently rising and falling more like rolling hills than snow-capped Pyrenees, get brighter, smarter and more sensual as she ages. Whether this philosophy is true or not, I’m grasping on and running with it, like I’m stealing baguettes from the Boulangerie.
I’ll read and write, meet and discuss, watch and learn, and allow each new wrinkle to add a depth of character that is impossible to attain without the passing of another year. And maybe even some day, when the gray in my hair rivals the grayest January day, I will aspire to having mold in my shower. It’ll be good for me even.
His girlfriend is played by the brilliant and talented Julie Delpy. She defends the mold and says something like, “It’s not black, it’s green. Look at it, it’s green, like blue cheese. It’s probably good for you even.”
This is the beginning of a film (ruckusly vying to be my favorite) where throughout, Delpy deftly articulates a French female persona that is outspoken and witty, making her seem carefree and sexy, where in fact she’s intelligent and deep as Sartre and de Beauvoir after midnight.
She expresses her depth and social consciousness via heated political arguments with cab drivers, public outbursts of blame to former boyfriends, and guilt-laden confessions of using toilet paper when there are so many other needs in this world.
Delpy wrote, directed, starred-in, and co-produced the original score for the movie. I adore her for this. ADORE.
Watching the movie by myself is pleasure enough, but 2 Days in Paris is also the funniest movie I’ve watched with Robin. Not that he’s ever had a problem accepting my family, but the movie softly illuminates, like a streetlamp along the steps to Montmartre, why I’m the way I am and that my mom is really quite normal. (In another laugh-out-loud scene, the French mother walks in on Delpy and Goldberg having sex and asks if they have any laundry she can do for them. Yep, this happened to us, except my mom saw more, so had to back out of the bedroom and ask about the laundry when we emerged later that morning.)
Since I was born in the US, along with all the American freedoms I’m fortunate to have, I also have the freedom to choose which parts of my heritage I adopt and which I eschew.
Home:
I promise my shower is clean. Like a proper American mother, I have bleach spray and Clorox wipes and stain remover and I use them with abandon. My house is organized, vacuumed, wiped down and mostly decluttered.
However, I refuse to feel unreasonably pressured to make my home perfect, as in properly accessorized and decorated, and in keeping up with people who are good at those things. I do love a beautiful house, with coordinated throw pillows, shiny wood floors, crisp-white trims and kitchen counter space for more than one cook. But even if I had the money, it’s just not a priority. That part of my brain (the French part) isn’t wired to care that much. I’d rather read or write or watch a movie or see a friend or think.
Food:
The non-fat, fake food, fad diet, obsessive way of eating is entirely unappealing. Over the years I thankfully and deliciously assumed the French Girl’s diet. To me it’s defined by real food, add butter, hold the sugar. Unprocessed, unpackaged, seasonal variety, add extra fat to everything, and only eat the highest quality desserts or none at all. Yes, one can be snotty about dessert, and one gets used to it quickly.
Clothes:
Shopping for clothes bores me to tears. I’m disappointed by what’s out there and I don’t have time anyway. I want to give it up. So recently I embarked on a Wardrobe Simplification Project (WSP). I’ve narrowed my clothes to a few simple pieces that essentially all look the same, but fit like bespoke basics. I accessorize these simple pieces with scarves, yoga and attempted wit (the scarves being the only consistent and successful part).
Parisian women have always been known for their style, fashion, elegance, or an effortless combination of the three. But I think the modern French woman prefers simplicity above all. Because to think clearly about what’s important to her, or to think in any higher degree at all, she must simplify wherever she can. Of course she wants to look nice and be desired, but she knows that what she wears is a miniscule part of who she is.
I wish I could adopt other ways of the French woman, like being more outspoken, more confident, less timid, and less worried about the imperfections of myself and my life. I’d love to more naturally embrace an uninhibited joie de vivre that for now takes 3 glasses of Bordeaux to achieve. Maybe it's just a matter of time.
Which takes me to my favorite Frenchy philosophy to adopt: The idea that women get better as they age and become more of what I describe above. That a woman’s 20’s and 30’s were just practice for her 40’s and 50’s. That her lifetime peaks, gently rising and falling more like rolling hills than snow-capped Pyrenees, get brighter, smarter and more sensual as she ages. Whether this philosophy is true or not, I’m grasping on and running with it, like I’m stealing baguettes from the Boulangerie.
I’ll read and write, meet and discuss, watch and learn, and allow each new wrinkle to add a depth of character that is impossible to attain without the passing of another year. And maybe even some day, when the gray in my hair rivals the grayest January day, I will aspire to having mold in my shower. It’ll be good for me even.
posted by Anne at 4:05 PM
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