Illustration via Real Simple by Aimee Miller Summer is just about here -- well, summer to the best of Paris' ability, which means cool and sunny warmish days, spotted by the occasional scorching hot day. Paris doesn't exactly boast the humid east coast summers I grew up with, nor the dry, desert, temperature-soaring west coast summers that I had familiarized myself with in my early 20s. But who's complaining here? Not me. It's not raining and I'm not forced to wear my wool toggle coat, so consider me a happy gal.
What comes with warm weather comes the shorts, summer dresses, skorts and maxi dresses fashioning lighter fabrics, brighter colors and bare legs. Something I have noticed here is that the few times a year my legs get a little "air time" with a modest above-the-knee skirt or worse, when I wear a pair of yoga pants out and about, you'd think I was wearing a metallic g-string with matching tassel pasties based on some of the reactions I've gotten on the street. Some of the men here are just animals, and the slightest bit of skin or form-fitting garment causes them to pant like puppies in their prime. Get a grip, guys. I had one guy stop me on the street to tell me he had been waiting for me all day followed by an evil laugh (think: muwhahahaha) once he saw the confusion cross my face.
Last Thursday, taking advantage of these lovely days as vacation looms on the Parisian horizon, Finding Noon Sylvia invited me to attend the private sales at the haute boutiques on the fancy shmancy rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. This late-spring fête came with champagne, mini sandwhiches, bossa nova streaming from store to store, and of course, the best people-watching while shopping (or in my case, looking at) freshly marked-down items. Meeting Sylvia at 7pm, I had no choice but to come directly from work and showed up for my little French taters in a structured ballerina-shaped mint green tank dress, my white Repetto jazz shoes and a striped vintage Missoni cardigan.
While at work, my little ones who have only really seen me in leggings, work jeans and sweaters took notice to my cotton candy ensemble and during a vocabulary game that I created called "big ball/little ball", they decided to chase after me, Madame Barbe à Papa. There's something about having a pack of three year old French boys charging towards you, ready to pounce, screaming "À l'attaque! À l'attaque!" that is beyond terrifying. When they're that small and compact, they're fast and grab you in vulnerable spots like your ankles.
Franck, precious, precious, sweet, chocolate-covered Franck took the attack as a perfect opportunity to lift my skirt to see what was underneath. Being the ringleader of the group, this incited a riot of tiny monsters with their little, dirty, marker-stained hands trying to snatch me from under my skirt. À l'attaque, indeed.
Having grown up with all boys, I was one step ahead of the game that morning when selecting my under garments. Being behind on laundry, the choice was either a fuchsia lace thong or a pair of white briefs that I had washed a few years ago with the detergent that is made only for black clothing, and after several washes were now stained a spotty brown. Hotsy-totsy or poopy-esque? Not at all foreshadowing these turn of events, but also not wanting to go Letourneau in the event a prolific gust of wind should happen, I went for icky brown.
When the parents arrived an hour later, the kids had nothing to report other than they had seen my culottes and that they were brown. I was mortified, while the kids seemed completely satisfied despite the fact that they were sent to the corner for five minutes. One of the fathers looked completely embarrassed, one of the mothers was proud that her son was expressing his sexuality (yes, direct quote) and another father said that his son's mother doesn't usually dress like how I was dressed so it was a natural reaction to see what was under the skirt.
Gross, gross, gross, gross.
Regardless of the weather, I have since returned to my usual uniform of leggings and a long shirts with the brown panty incident never to be spoken of again. They say that kids have select memories in regard to their childhood, I pray that this isn't one that sticks with them. Brown undies? God help them.
