Je me souviens ...
My teenage daughter used to really like French.
My husband and I have both been known to butcher said beautiful romance language. (At a hotel on the Riviera, my spouse once told the concierge that the car left its key in our room but, comme toujours, he made up for what he lacked in grammar with his enthusiasm.) When my daughter was little, we used French when we didn't want her to know what we were saying. She was particularly gleeful when her own studies (in eighth grade or so) surpassed our sorry attempts.
So much for our secret language.
My daughter enjoyed middle school French. She certainly enjoyed our mother-daughter trip to Paris. We visited Sacre Couer and the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Versailles (my favorite) and the Catacombs (hers).
We took a late night boat ride along the Seine, ate crepes and croissants, and my daughter conducted a thorough if not exactly scientific taste test of all the onion soup gratinée of the city. Throughout, we gamely exercised our skills françaises.
But, some time later in high school, between French 3 and French 4, la perle lost its sheen. There was a tremendous jump between the expectations of those two levels. They went from taking vocabulary tests (my daughter has always been a crack memorizer) to reading entire novels and doing oral presentations in class (not her favorite thing, regardless of the language).
She qualified for AP French but responded with a definitive, "Non, merci."
Those weren't her exact words, but you get the general purpose and intent.
In just a few months (mon dieu!), she'll head off to college. Although she has already declared her Equine Business major, she is enrolled in a liberal arts curriculum and is expected to fulfill a language requirement. This generated some dinner table discussion.
I suggested that she return to French, ensuring her that, as I found at my own alma mater, college courses would be much better than high school.
My husband also suggested that she return to French, with the helpful hint that if she dropped down a couple of levels, it would be very easy to score an "A."
My daughter had a different idea.
"I'm going to take American Sign Language," she told us.
Wow.
This was a different (and completely valid it turns out) solution. In fact, it may even come in very handy because I'm hoping that along with her Equine Business courses, she'll take some classes in Therapeutic Riding. Horses and horsemanship have proven very beneficial for riders with all sorts of disabilities and impairments. How amazing it would be if all of her interests and academic pursuits converged into something so special and important.
Then again, maybe it's just a creative solution to get out of a foreign language requirement.
Either way, it's her choice, n'est-ce pas?
Bien sûr.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
We live in a world where size matters and less is more. As mothers of teenage girls, we're well-advised to keep our eyes on their eating habits.
According to Eating Disorder Hope, an organization that "promotes ending eating disordered behavior, embracing life and pursuing recovery," as many as 50% of teen girls (and 30% of teen boys — really) use unhealthy weight control behaviors such as skipping meals, fasting,
smoking cigarettes, vomiting, and taking laxatives to control their
weight. And this behavior doesn't necessarily end when girls leave high school; 25% of women on college campuses binge and purge.
My own daughter, I'm happy to say, doesn't have any of the above problems. She's an athlete and hungry ... well ... pretty much all the time. Don't get me wrong, she's no health food nut. In fact, you might even say she has a "love/hate relationship." She loves to snack all day and hates it when we're out of her favorites, like cookie dough, cheese poofs, and tortilla chips. Luckily she also craves more nutritious options like fresh fruit, steamed edamame, and chicken caesar salad. Otherwise, I might not win that "mother of the year" award I've been counting on.
Anyway ...
Society has sent adolescent girls mixed messages since long before my daughter — or even I — was born. Take popular magazines, for example. Editorial will warn against crash diets and then on the next page you'll see a model who looks like she's a heroine addict in a famine-stricken country who's had four of her ribs removed.
Not cool.
I don't expect the United States to do anything about it. After all, we don't exactly embrace regulations of any kind. (Don't get me started on gun control. More than 90,000 gun deaths since Newtown? I told you, don't get me started.) Common sense here takes a backseat to protecting our rights, partisan politics, and almighty commerce. But, it's with great interest that I've followed news coming out of France the last few weeks.
The so-called "Skinny Model Ban," passed into French legislation right before Christmas. It stipulates that models must have a doctor's note saying that they are of a healthy weight (technically with a BMI of 18 or higher). Advertisers that hire non-conforming models risk a 6-month prison sentence and a fine of 75,000 euros. In addition, if a photo of a model is edited to make her appear thinner, a disclaimer of "Retouched Photo" must accompany it. Failure to do so could incur a lesser but still significant fine of 37,500 euros.
As you can imagine, the outcry from France's fashion industry was swift and loud. Some threatened that the new law would drive design, photography, and publishing out of the country altogether. One stylist insisted that the new rules are body-shaming women with eating disorders and that garment sizes should be regulated rather than the people wearing them.
Regardless of the brouhaha, Frances is not the first country to address the dangerous epidemic of wasp-waisted runway waifs. Israel, Spain, and Italy have similar laws and the United Kingdom's Advertising Standards Authority has the right to ban ads that are "misleading, harmful and offensive." Apparently, images that tell young women that their goal should be zero percent body fat fall into that "harmful" category. I agree.
And, I wholeheartedly applaud France's efforts. The worlds of media, fashion, and publishing hold great influence over the self-image and subsequent behavior of their audiences — especially of pre-teens, teens, and young women. But, I also find it interesting in light of a strange dichotomy I've always observed about the French.
French women, in particular Parisian women, are noted for their sophistication and glamour and — especially — their thinness. In fact, Mireille Guiliano, former CEO of my favorite champagne Veuve Cliquot, wrote a bestselling book series about it: French Women Don't Get Fat ®.
Three years ago, my daughter and I spent an incredible week together in Paris. Here's what I remember about the beautiful city's beautiful women.
They were stylish.
I knew better than to wear my running shoes (bien sur!), but I still stood out as une americaine. Even my expensive embroidered flats couldn't compete with their sky-high heels. (And on cobblestones, wtf?)
They were smokers.
We're so used to nicotine-shaming our colleagues and neighbors here that it was rather a shock to see virtually everyone, old/young, male/female puffing away.
And they were impossibly thin.
How, one might ask, was this possible given that Paris has arguably the best and most delectable food available everywhere you look? How do French women resist soupe a l'oignon gratinee, des patisseries, coq au vin, boeuf bourguinon, or even a simple crepe from a street vendor?
My daughter and I didn't care. After all, it just meant more for us.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
This weekend's horrific attacks on Paris left us all reeling. We watched the news, read survivor stories, and when the French government retaliated with air strikes on assumed ISIS targets, we wrung our hands (or applauded, depending on whether we believe that a violent reaction to violence can ever lead to peace).
For those of us who have had the privilege and pleasure of visiting Paris, we were flooded with memories.
I took French for most of my school years, starting in second grade with the glamorous Madame Cipriani (who also taught Spanish, despite her Italianate surname). Whenever she took vacations abroad, she would bring back souvenirs which we could win in pop oral quizzes. Two such items, a small enamel tray that looked like a Parisian street sign and a brochure from the S.S. France, were among my prized possessions.
I dreamed of visiting Paris and finally got to when I was 25. I spent two weeks traveling through France and Switzerland with a coworker. But, after a night in Geneva, I decided I'd had enough of the Alps and took a train by myself back to the city of lights. The few days I spent there alone were une très grande aventure.
More visits followed. I've been to Paris twice with my husband. The first time, we were still dating and we almost (sort of, kind of, well not really) got engaged there. He did actually pop the question later on the same trip, in Grenoble. The second time was many years later when we were able to add on a few days to a business meeting ... a wonderful way to travel and one that I highly recommend if you have the bonne chance.
My sister and I took our mother to Paris about fifteen years ago. We stayed in a pretty hotel across from a little park in the city's garment district. We ate more pastry than the law should allow. It was a lovely trip and also a bit sobering. I had to face the fact that my sister's French was beacoup mieux than mine. (Sorry, Madame Cipriani. Je suis désolé.)
Of course, the trip that stands out for me now is my most recent one with my teenage daughter. We were in London for a friend's bat mitzvah and took the Eurostar to Paris. It was just the two of us; her dad's work situation didn't allow him to come. We spent five glorious days there, filling each one with museums and sights and yes, pastry. Together we set off to find the city's best soupe à l'oignon, a quest that my daughter took very seriously, trying at least one and sometimes two a day. We visited Versailles, had crepes in the shadow of Sacré-Cœur, took a late night tour of the Seine aboard a bateau mouche, climbed la Tour Eiffel, and stood on line for two hours to explore les catacombes.
I don't know when we've had such a good time together. There was nothing to do, yet so much to see. No alarms to set (wonder of wonders, she woke early each morning — without any prodding whatsoever — because there was simply so much to do), no homework, no laundry, no client calls. We were there to enjoy it all in a place that seemed designed purely for that purpose.
I think that's what Paris means to all of us — and why this comes as such a blow.
That's what this weekend's terrorists were attacking, a place where celebrating life has evolved to an art form. One of my business partners went there earlier this fall, and it's hitting him very hard. As he explained to me this morning, the fact that the gunmen targeted café patrons and people enjoying music feels particularly obscene.
Much has been made in more liberal social media about the bias and ethnocentricity demonstrated by major news outlets. Why, people are asking (rightly) does a terrorist attack in France warrant so much attention, as well as national symbols of sympathy and solidarity? What about terrorist attacks in Baghdad, Beirut and Garissa University — some of which resulted in even more victims? I agree and I'm ashamed that we don't pay more attention to the atrocities in non-Western countries. We are all human beings and a life in the Middle East or Africa is every bit as valuable as one on the Champs-Élysées.
I am so grateful for the time I spent in Paris with my daughter. (Truly, I'm grateful for the time we've spent together anywhere.) Most of all, I'm grateful — profoundly grateful — to have her safe and sound when so many mothers, all over the world, are mourning today.
I wish I knew the answer, but I don't.
Mon dieu, I hope we find it someday soon.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
School starts again in less than three weeks. Tenth grade, sophomore year. My daughter is not exactly happy about it. And, when I say 'not exactly happy,' what I really mean is miserable. Yes, she's miserable. Mis-er-a-ble. Think of the little urchin on the Les Misérables poster.
You get the picture.
Anticipating another year would be bad enough. Mais non, our smug suburban overachieving little high school has to add insult to injury by assigning beaucoup de summer homework. My daughter has assignments (long, tough, "b-o-r-i-n-g" assignments) for three of her eight courses, all of which will be tested on the first day of class.
Sacré bleu!
This means that my own summer is officially over. Fini! I've put away the sundresses, shorts and tank tops, flip flops and floppy hats. It's time to pull out my long hooded cape, bejeweled crown and eye liner. Time, once again, to become ... the evil queen.
I wish I had one of those teenagers who dove into her work with nary a nudge. Alas, I do not. Very quickly all my hinting becomes requesting becomes nagging becomes shrieking on the order of a classic Disney villainess.
The first order of business is her packet for Honors French 3. And while doing the work is not negotiable, I have to admit (at least here, if not to her) that it's très stupide. She has spent the last two evenings conjugating verbs — 70 so far and counting. If you ask moi, this rote task seems pretty ... well ... rote. The goal is to learn a language, n'est-ce pas? Not to make endless lists.
How is this going to help her in real life? What if she gets helicoptered in to moderate a peace talk at the United Nations? Or she has to order a croissant on the Rue Rivoli? Je ne comprends pas! Why don't they teach them any really important things, things they might need if they actually go to France, things like how to say ...
"Où est la maison de Johnny Depp?"
"Puis-je obtenir à prix réduit de l'année dernière de Chanel?"
Or "Un autre verre de vin blanc, s'il vous plaît."
Nevertheless, mine is not to reason why. My job is to enforce the rules and convince my reluctant student to study even though she would rather be doing pretty much anything else. At the rate she's going, the French packet should be fini this weekend. And then all we have to worry about is a 30-page chapter for AP World History and the novel Dracula.
Mon dieu. Un autre verre de vin blanc, s'il vous plait!
When the going gets tough, the tough go to Zumba.
Or used to go anyway.
After five weeks off, I finally went back to the gym. Ouch! I am one hurtin' puppy. For the past three years, I've been a pretty consistent worker-outer. Dance classes (Zumba and Nia) 3-4 times a week, yoga 2-3 times. But, you wouldn't know it right now.
When school ended the third week of June, my teen daughter and I headed to Europe. We had a bat mitzvah in London, followed by a few days in Paris. Back in the states, I had to get three weeks worth of work done in a day and a half before we went up to Maine (along with my husband this time) for an annual sailing trip. It would have been lovely to go to the gym in between those back-to-back vacations.
But, who am I kidding?
Now, you may think I spent my ten days abroad eating les bon bons and sipping le vin blanc and not exercising. Mais non, mon ami! All right, there were plenty of bon bons and wine, but there was also plenty of exercise. Let's see ...
We walked all over London. My daughter and our two young English friends walked from brunch in Mayfair to Oxford Street (and teen fashion mecca Primark), then from Oxford Street to St. Johns Wood. Not sure how many kilometres that was but it took us an hour and a half, and we simply had to stop for ice cream along the way.
I danced my tuchus off at the bat mitzvah. I was familiar with a lot of the music from Zumba and actually used some of the moves from my class out on the dance floor. It was extremely gratifying when an older gentleman who was once a dance instructor at New York's Tavern on the Green told his wife that I "had the moves." I've repeated the story several times. So many times, in fact, that my daughter asked, rolling her eyes, "Yeah, yeah, you're never gonna forget that one, are you Mom?"
We continued the vacation workout in Paris. We had just four days to cover ... well, pretty much everything. We walked to and up Montmartre, and climbed to the dome of Sacre Couer. We walked down 350 steps to the Catacombs. We walked the halls and gardens of Versailles. And, on our last full day in the city of lights, we walked up the Eiffel Tower. You see, three of the four elevators were out of order. So, we could stand on line for the only one in operation, or we could save €5 each and walk. About halfway up, suffering from a bit of acrophobia as well as muscle fatigue, I had the distinct feeling that the outside staircase (kind of like a never-ending industrial strength fire escape in a cage) was shaking. "No, Mo-o-om, it's not," groaned my daughter. She was right. The staircase wasn't shaking ... my legs were!
The view was magnificent, as we expected. I paid too much for a bottle of water and we took about a hundred pictures. Then we had to walk back down. Toward the end of our descent, a display showed the relative heights of various international structures. It also informed us that our climb had been the equivalent of going up and down a 43-story building. (It was probably a good thing that I didn't know that from the start.)
Our final Olympic-level vacation feat was dragging our overloaded luggage a mile — uphill — to the Gare du Nord to catch the train to Charles de Gaulle. Every muscle ached.
Every. Muscle. In. My. Body. Ached.
Then, a bit of jet lag, a bit of advertising copy for clients ... and we went sailing. I didn't do much (hoisted the mainsail along with all the other guests, hiked a little on an island). But, somehow or other, my back went out on our last morning. I curled up painfully in the rear of the car for the drive home and limped around for another two weeks afterwards. My guess is that all of the Paris exertion caught up to me, exacerbated by the tiny "careful-not-to-hit-your-head" bunk in our schooner cabin.
Isn't it fun getting older?
Extra Strength Tylenol is a wonderful thing. And finally, after a few pain-free days, I went back to Zumba. I was not very coordinated; I didn't know the new routines; I was drenched in sweat. But, here's the worst of it. In my weeks away, someone stole my spot! For three years (hello, three years, people!), I've stood in the second row, all the way on the left, near the stereo and the stacked step equipment. I liked my spot. I could see the instructor. I could see myself in the mirror. I was close to the action but not in the very first "look-at-me-cause-I'm-all-that" row.
Now, I'm stuck in the back, on the right. Boo.
It just goes to prove what I've always secretly feared, you can never never never stop working out. You must stay committed. You have to feel the burn. You have to drag your sorry booty to the gym or face the consequences.
You snooze, you lose ... your place at Zumba.
