A LITTLE EXTRA SOMETHING

“You’re pregnant!” It’s such great news! But in grammar as in life, the word “pregnant” is an adjective. It describes you, it doesn’t define you.

You take advantage of your newfound cleavage to experiment with the décolleté: you are sexy.

You beam, you cry, you dissolve into hysterical laughter: you’re a woman on the edge.

You buy things in extra-large at H&M rather than go to a maternity store: you have flair.

You don’t think of yourself as the eighth wonder of the world: you are realistic.

You don’t complain to your co-workers about your stretch marks: you are discreet.

You’d rather discuss the last film you saw, not Lamaze breathing: you are in tune with the times.

You live for moments of happiness so intense that you think you’ll explode: you are a woman in love.

You don’t discuss your fear of an episiotomy with your brother-in-law: you know your manners.

You don’t believe that your belly entitles you to be high maintenance: you are a grown-up.

You don’t share the photos from your last ultrasound with your entire address book: you still have some secrets.

You don’t plan a baby shower: you don’t need to celebrate the fact that you had sex eight months ago.

You wear high heels until the day you walk into the delivery room: you never surrender.

You replace your Bloody Marys with Virgin Marys, but that’s it: you’re no saint.

You don’t feel guilty because you missed your last birthing classes: you are a free woman.

You are not defined by this stage of your life. This is a period of growth. You are a pregnant woman, which means you are above all a woman. With a little extra something.

THE PARTY

It’s 10:59 p.m.

When you finally turn off your computer your eyes are red from staring at the screen. Your colleagues left long ago. This is when you wish that someone were still around, a living soul to witness, or even just two hands to applaud, your long day’s work. You slam the door and hop on your scooter. You need to be around people—anyone will do. You’re off to join a flaky girlfriend at some random party. But hey, a party is still a party. At this unlikely hour, when you’re craving company and a roll of the dice, anything will do the trick.

It is forty minutes later, and you and your plastic champagne flute have both lost their luster. You’re staring at a bookshelf, trying to feign interest.

—So, how’s that drink treating you, Zelda? Quite the party, huh?

Some brown-haired guy has come to badger you, obviously amused to see you stranded. You try to dodge the bullet and discourage him:

—Have you no one else to talk to …?

—Oh, I do, but they’re a lot less entertaining than you are. Watching a pretty girl alone at a party where she doesn’t know a soul, kicking her heels in front of a pile of books at midnight—it doesn’t get much better than that.

—Quite the smooth talker when you like someone, aren’t you?

—Who says I like you?

This animal is cleverer than you thought. He’s not wrong and you both know it, but you’d sooner stick to your guns and battle it out than admit defeat. But let’s face it, you’re here alone, desperately alone. The friend you were supposed to meet got lost along the way, which doesn’t surprise you: in Paris, at night, it’s every woman for herself.

You tell yourself that the best way to get this guy to leave you alone is probably to keep quiet. You turn and home in on the conversation between the two drunk girls next to you.

—Wait, I don’t get it …

—I swear, he told me he was going to “bang me”!

—My goodness, they’ve all gone crazy …

—Yeah, but weirdly enough, it kind of turned me on.

You don’t have time to dwell on this nocturnal poetry. The stubborn guy, sensing your distraction, gives it another shot.

—Are you always this boring or is it me?

You’re about to brush him off once and for all, when you spot your infamous ex walking in. Clearly, this is your lucky night. Suddenly you feel the urge to look busy, to act like you find this conversation interesting. Time to reload.

—Let me get this straight, tough guy—did you come here to talk or to insult me?

He hesitates for a moment, scrutinizing you.

—All I’m trying to do is hit on a girl I like.

—See, told you you liked me.

He pulls himself together. Now you’ve got the upper hand. But your ex gives you a half wave from across the room (what a jerk) while his new girlfriend blatantly ignores you and continues mingling (what a bitch). In your unhappiness you tell yourself that despite everything, this guy next to you at least gets credit for masking your distress (what a trooper).

That’s the moment another male nuisance decides to make his move. But you cut him off before he has a chance to utter a word:

—Not right now, please.

He leaves with his tail between his legs while the guy still standing next to you bursts out laughing. He didn’t miss a second of your merciless putdown.

—You women crack me up! You all claim you’re feminists who believe in gender equality, but when it comes to making the first move, you’re all the same.

You bounce back, ready for the final battle.

—Listen, we don’t know each other so I’m going to cut to the chase. You can’t blame me for all the other times a woman has snubbed you.

He stares at you. There’s a malicious twinkle in his eye.

—No, you listen to me. Let me explain what it really means to be a man. Maybe then you’ll think twice the next time a guy risks his life by trying to talk to you. He’s got to:

1. Know how to get rejected without taking it personally.

2. Rebound as if nothing happened.

3. Find something interesting to talk about even though he knows the woman in front of him is checking out some guy behind his shoulder. A guy she’s most likely slept with but who doesn’t seem to be fighting for her attention anymore.

4. Keep talking to her, without asking himself why the other guy isn’t fighting to take his place.

5. And keep being a gentleman even after she insults another guy who had the sheer audacity to approach her.

At this point, you know he’s played his cards right (and maybe you’re even starting to like him).

He continues.

—And if you persevere, and this awful girl finally decides she likes you, you’ll have to deliver. The pressure will come down on you and you’ll need to get a hard-on. The little voice you know all too well will wake up and say, “Go for it, it’s your turn to play. It’s now or never!” And the little voice will never shut up even after you’ve overcome your fear of failure. It will yell even louder, “No, no! Not now, not yet, NO!” You’ll hold yourself back, you’ll struggle, and then you’ll finish your duty, without honor or glory, hoping that the girl won’t sulk after the fact. That’s it.

Suddenly you understand that this guy deserves a round of applause. Or even just two enthusiastic hands, clapping to the rhythm. Just like you did when you left the office alone that night. We’re all misunderstood heroes, overcoming perilous situations with no one there to give us a medal.

The guy looks at you. You smile at him. You light a cigarette and pluck up your courage; you take a drag and feel your heart melt.

—Are you kidding me, I thought you quit smoking?!

You turn and see that your girlfriend has finally decided to show up. The guy feels that he’s unwanted and slips away with dignity. You hesitate for a moment, before ditching your friend.

Nope, you won’t be going to bed alone tonight.

AFTER-SEX LUNCH–HAPPY ENDING

You’re lying next to each other, catching your breath. Alas—as you know by now, sex tires men out. You accept him as he is, in his sorry state. But then you have a brilliant idea. You escape quietly to the kitchen. You open the fridge, and bring out some cheese, eggs, a slice of ham. You prepare an omelet, beating the eggs and adding a pinch of salt and pepper and a dash of milk. As soon as the butter begins to sizzle in the pan, you pour in the mixture. You put some bread into the toaster and open a bottle of red wine. You hurry, he mustn’t fall asleep. Next to the Comté and the ham, you set the toast, a glass of wine, and a steaming plate. In less than ten minutes, you’re back in the bedroom.

You place the tray on the bed.

He opens his eyes slowly.

La vie est belle.

BEING NAKED

While the sight of bare breasts in the French media is rather commonplace and long gone are the days when it shocked anyone, the Parisienne remains modest when it comes to her own nudity. Just because a Frenchman painted The Origin of the World some 150 years ago doesn’t make it acceptable for us to prance around naked whenever we feel like it.

Nudity must be treated like an apparition. Like a game between lovers, it must never feel gratuitous or mundane, it must never be taken for granted. It should always be meaningful.

When you walk around naked, you’re allowing yourself to be seen—and the person you’re with should know it’s intentional. You’re creating excitement. Even if you’re in a long-term relationship, don’t slouch, hold your head up high. You’ve learned to know your body and you can accommodate its peculiarities.

You’re a different woman when you’re undressed: if you don’t like your ass, walk sideways, your back to the wall, and show off your breasts. If your legs are too short or your thighs too wide, go on your tiptoes. If you don’t like your breasts … do something about them, but in the meantime, cross your arms, and when in bed, opt for positions lying on your back.

In short, you’re not a slave to the cult of the perfect body—so learn to make the best of what nature gave you.

GIRLS GANG

At first glance, one might think that Parisiennes don’t get along with one another, because in theory, two of them in the same room is one too many. Often when they first meet, they size each other up, shooting daggers at each other, as though they were in some kind of modern Western. But this hostility never lasts long.

It’s hard to say if it’s strategy, common sense, or seasoned feminism at work, or if a real affinity exists between them, but the fact remains that Parisiennes often work best as a team. They like to form small but solid units in which the qualities of each complement the others so much that the group itself becomes even greater, more desirable and seductive.

As confident as she may be, the Parisienne understands that she needs other women in her life: the long-lost childhood friends she reconnects with years later; the high school friends who were there for all her firsts—French kiss, playing hooky, getting dissed, first time, morning-after pill—and then there are the friends for life, the ones she can always count on, the ones who find her on their doorstep, suitcase in hand, after she’s been dumped. They’ll get pregnant at the same time, perhaps because they can’t actually have children with each other.

Without her girls gang, the Parisienne is incomplete.

Date: 2016-01-14; view: 685