The Attire of Defeat

Today I walked out of the house in my Target nightgown, a Nike hoodie, and plastic gold Chinese slippers adorned with sequined flowers. Although our laundro-mat is typically filled with an eclectic crew, today I was the sore thumb. This is after Monday evening when Matt and I walked to the park nearby, my tired feet (and tired mind) reaching for my obnoxious FitFlops (and not my black subdued ones purchased at Galleries Lafayette)---my clumsy thick, white soles reminding me with every-step that I was giving in.

I am losing my Paris mo-jo. Yesterday during my French lesson I was being taught the various levels of like/dislike. I put my couthe aside as I went for Francais administration under the category of “je deteste.” After feeling like it was an inappropriate joke, I quickly followed up j’adore with pain aux raisins. They are both authentically French, right?

In jest, I called last Monday “V-Day” as it was the long culmination of a battle we have been waging with the various groups that would give us immediate answers about the status of our visa and our necessary paperwork. And like D-Day, the French have won. We simply can’t get the answers we need, the work papers I am yearning for, and the peace of mind that would allow us to enjoy our time as Americans in Paris. They are testing our desire to stay-put, as they have gone so far as to schedule our medical/paperwork appointments for our mutelle on Monday (and with a week’s notice). This is also the day of a “July 5^th” picnic that I have been planning with a friend, and was very much looking forward to. As I put the wrapped up the prizes in red and yellow ribbon to send to my friend across town, as I will no longer be present to partake in the egg-toss, balloon toss, three-legged race, and patriotic flatware, I couldn't help but think that this is a sign. A shame of a coincidence? I think not. I am beginning to think I have a choice to make, as it seems that I can't be French and American simultaneously.

As I end this post and head back out in my floral nightgown, I can’t help but feel defeated and a yearning to return back home. This goes against all that Gangsta Milla, USA edition, stands for. Yet there comes a time when change is welcome, and in this case, it may be necessary. I miss Betty Crocker, low-fat cheese, spray butter, and more than anything, I miss my voice.