I am integrating quite well into French society. My social security number should arrive any day now. I can almost pass as French until I open my mouth. And when I do, I’ve superficially mastered the art of French conversation come cocktail hour. I can go on about square meters, summer vacations, and Balzac like the best of them.
But I still haven’t been able to brush off my American modesty. I am still a bit self-conscious in public flipping through a bare-breasted Vogue Paris. And to this day, I still blush hearing the French anthem “Je T’aime….Moi Non Plus.” “Geez, maybe I should turn this down”, I think to myself every time. And I am still bugging my husband to put a curtain in the bathroom window, which overlooks the shared garden out back. Mr. Design prefers an unobstructed view of the garden to a neighborly view of my tatas. In the meantime, I’ve adapted a crouching shower hidden lady parts technique in the bath. I’m one shower away from taping Gisele in the bathroom window.
Just as I was watercoloring the finishing touches on Gisele’s derrière , Mr. Design himself walked by and scrunched up his nose. “What’s wrong? Gisele’s booty is pas mal, eh? Eh?” “No, it’s just not the best Vogue cover ever,” he remarked while walking away. Go figure.
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