I hate shopping. I hate confronting the difference between what a beautiful dress looks like on a hanger and on my body. I hate making decisions. (Another black dress? Or am I ready to show on the outside how iconoclastic I am on the inside, by wearing, say, neon orange?) And then there’s the pesky little detail about money. (Shouldn’t I just put every penny into my kids’ college funds?)
But here I am in Paris, during the twice-a-year season of soldes. Everything is on sale, marked way, way down. Plus I didn’t bring enough underwear.
My husband and I are alone for a few days while the kids are at camp. Even the dog has a sitter. And, since we’re in the Land of Lingerie, an underthings store beckons me on every block.
The last time I shopped for unmentionables was a year ago, again during the season of soldes, right before our sabbatical year here ended. I thought I’d gotten over my feelings of inadequacy vis-a-vis the natives (French women are so tiny! So chic!) I’d recovered from the fear that the boutiques wouldn’t even have anything that fit me. I knew my French bra size now. I took off the one I was wearing and looked at the tag. Then laughed out loud.
Why? Because the size is a ludicrously high number.
In America I am a 36, but in France I am a 90. (No need to remind myself that my dress size went from 8 to 38 and my shoe size from 7 to 37. I can just ignore the numbers I don’t like, the way politicians do.)
I’ll try to pretend I don’t know that the difference has to do with centimeters being smaller than inches. I’ll tell myself that all I had to do was fly over the Atlantic and my breasts almost tripled in size. And my weight, in kilos, is almost half its imperial number. Those 90-size breasts must be filled with something as light as fantasy. I imagine slipping my shirts over a couple of hot air balloons.
I bought a bra and panties to replace the ones that had stretched out and faded since last year. I also nabbed a lacy red nuisette. I didn’t actually need a nightie, but it was 50 percent off. Judging from how little fabric there was, it seems only fair that I was able to buy it for next to nothing.
So I still have a little money left to take care of my kids. But I’m not going to think about that—or them—tonight.
and now you are back in the land of chic, so enjoy. and at 50% off, it is obligatory to buy! Nuisette sounds a lot better than nightie; maybe if we used French to describe our clothes, we too could be chic. But is chic comfortable?