The Prescription Club

Here I sit propped haphazardly on four pillows, sniffling away, and feeling quite ornery. Has old age hit me? As my Erdenheim Elementary pals and I so creatively performed in Kate VH’s living room decades ago, I do believe my soundtrack for this birthday thus far comes from The Sound of Mucus (with a newly arranged song, “I am Thirty Going on Eighty”).

On Tuesday, September 14^th, I turned the big 3-0. I have entered my fourth decade, and celebrated my embarkment on this journey wearing a potato sack I purchased at a “boutique” in the Chatelet Metro stop in between my teaching position and my osteo appointment. I justified the twenty-seven euro splurge by knowing that my protruding hip would look less apparent in such a boxy number. Sadly, I didn’t have time to purchase orthopedic pumps to accompany my polyester shift.

As it has been weeks now since my journey into the French medical system began, I didn’t feel quite so peeved by my situation until I realized that this is simply what accompanies age (that and little extra pockets of skin here and there). And if so, I am not interested. I want to age gracefully, not feel like 30 has hit me over the head (and the hip, and the nose, and the toe -- which is by the way still ailing from when I get ran over by an old lady’s shopping cart). I am feeling overwhelmed, and blaming it on the quick and drastic exit of my youth.

My birthday week started well: the Monday prior I had a young man in class exclaim, “You are young!” What I didn’t realize until further chatter was that this was because he thought I had said thirteen and not thirty (a pronunciation issue I see frequently with my French-speaking kiddos). It was made up for by the birthday serenade in class the following morning, and the two young girls who spent their recess building me a strawberry and chocolate layered cake out of Jenga blocks. I returned from the bathroom only to be handed my piece. I was clearly very important.

But as the day wore on, I could tell that thirty was indeed not going to suit me. The sore throat, the protruding hip and back pain -- my body was revolting. Weeks ago when we were sitting in our hotel bed in Cannes planning my soiree, it was a sign that when we Googled “preppy bars in Paris,” la premiere link was the Prescription Cocktail Club. As I spent Tuesday evening there with the wonderful friends I have forged since arriving here only nine months ago, it was easy to forget for just a few hours (thanks to the American cupcakes, vodka, and Vicodin) that I am embarking on my journey towards elderly -- the newest member of the Prescription Club.

Some people take age with stride. Perhaps that is because they can still walk (and do so in sexy heels and dresses that don’t look like they have come from the “Home” section of Galeries Lafayette). However, Chanel took her unique style and made it into an empire. Dr. Scholl’s, you might just be getting a run (more like wobble) for your money. Move over Manolo … for Fall ’10, I see thick soles and plastic.

On a side note (my left one not my distorted right one) -- a very happy birthday to my twin, Meredith! I hope you enjoy the Mephistos I sent you.

Cherries & Roses

The word “job” usually elicits groans and eye rolls. Unless you work with Steve Carrell, it is not all fun and games, and for some, it even produces dread (think working as the store clerk in the Louis Vuitton on the Champs Elysees). In France, a job is almost seen as a right, as once you secure one, it is yours for the keeping (and keep them they do, as performance does not play as large a role in the duration of their employment time). I believe that accompanying this security, is a lack of gratitude, and yes, customer service. This can mean things big and small, but the unions here have mastered the art of bad customer service in regards to their multitude of strikes.

The morning of Tuesday, September 7^th was most like other days here in Paris: baguettes being rolled, poulet being roasted, and Parisians rising (late) to a lovely, crisp autumn day--which, would work out well when they had to walk to work instead of hop on at their local metro or RER stop. The unions are up in arms about Sarkozy’s proposal to switch social security age from 60 to 62 (which by the way, allows you to live a much more comfortable lifestyle than the USA’s does). This change has prompted numerous protests, rallies and the ever-dreaded metro strike. Whereas it only took me a wee-bit longer to get to my necessary destinations, the experience itself was depressing. Emergency alarms being turned on in stations to irritate the passengers, cars packed like sardines, and worst of all, the crowded platforms that drum up adrenaline and anxiety the minute you ascend the stairs and imagine what your fight to make it on the train will be like. On my journey to tutor, I exhaled greatly when I saw that it was not going to be me, but the poor souls traveling in the opposite direction that would be using their street savvy to make it home on time.

But then there are those moments that put it all into perspective, moments that remind you that it really isn’t that bad. As I stood there, selfishly excited that it was not me on the other platform, a lady on my side decided to offer a little therapy. There she sat in her orange plastic seat on the dirty platform, dressed in her work clothes, quite unassuming. In a moment of haste, perhaps, she opened her wind pipes, and belted a quite melodious version of La Vie en Rose. The opposing platform dwellers did not know what to judging from their gaping mouths and wide eyes, and as she came to a close, a thunderous clap resonated throughout the station. For that very moment, people shed their irritation and smiled. She continued to lighten the mood, until upon arrival of the train, she trilled “auvoir” and the passengers boarded while simultaneously clapping. The unions would be quite angry to know that amidst a day of chaos, there was a lovely, memorable moment that had spawned from the misery they were trying to create.

Alas, that moment ended and here I find myself still quite frustrated by the thought that the unions are determined to disrupt work days to lessen their overall work time, and I am desperately wanting to gain my work papers. As I have now turned down a teaching job, I am saddened by the thought that I may be turning down another fantastic job offer next week as well with Lagardere (Google it if you don’t know what it is, you’ll be sad for me too). We were told today over a conference call that it is just not possible for me to gain the correct carte de sejour. End of story, all hope squashed.

I hit the ground running over here last January and feel so accomplished in many respects, but that final cherry would be those papers. I see my Conehead Sundae being minus the cone here forever more---which is almost an intolerable thought. But, perhaps instead I have to concentrate on the delicious ice cream and Reese’s Pieces that I still have awaiting me (those standing alone have never disappointed me before). As I head out tonight to pick up my race dossard with my friends at the Champ de Mars for La Parisenne, and turn around to spend the weekend playing house with Matt for a family we adore, it is hard to not look at the big picture. In less than a year many people would say we have “made” it. We have fantastic friends, a place in the American community, and we experience the city of Paris daily. But as Ariel from the Little Mermaid so bluntly put it, “I want more.” And if she was a princess and wanted more, I am entitled to wanting my work papers (okay, and to win the lottery). I can’t have my cake and eat it too, but at least I should be afforded a properly made sundae.

The platform at Charles de Gaulle being serenaded

The CGT protest culminating at Nation