No, no! This little one is not getting married anytime soon- though suitors do abound, if I may be so bold. It’s just that I realized I never spoke (wrote?) about something that struck me as particularly interesting about French culture.
I am under the strong impression- due to personal experience, narratives, and my countless nights out on South Beach- that here in the United States a bachelorette party is all about getting trashy, getting that awkward lap dance, and adorning one’s body with phallic paraphenalia (or… it just so happens that’s all I have seen). I mean, it even feels like a Bachelorette Party is just an excuse to “cheat one last time”.
In France the “enterrement de jeune fille”, which if we want to transliterate means “the burial of the young girl”, is slightly different. From what I got to see, the bride-to-be is dressed in the most ridiculous of tenures (not that sporting a penis necklace around your neck is not ridiculous enough). I’m talking “Tacky Day” on drugs—spandex, brightly-colored afro wig, etc.
She is paraded around the city and given a series of dares. Sometimes they even blindfold the girl and take her to an undisclosed location, kind of like that last episode of SVU….except, of course, this is fun.
Anyway, I think I have pretty much failed at not being biased on which one I find less degrading.
Then there’s this cultural thing that made me cock my head to the side and scowl:
Now, it is no secret I don’t particularly care for children. I am very selective of the children I like- either the kid is genuinely witty (yes, WITTY), his or her parents are people I like, or the kid has to be related to me. Other than that, my dormant maternal instinct will remain as such, and I will be the awkward person not cooing and saying how cute the baby is.
Sorry not sorry.
Anyway, now that that’s out of the way, on to the story!
One day I was invited to a baby shower in Paris. It was, as a matter of fact, for a very well-loved couple from our exchange group. It was all kept hush-hush, as it was a surprise. In the email exchanges, I volunteered to make a fruit salad, because I’m boss at making fruit salad!
So I went to the market and selected the most delicious-looking fruit. I was going to show how much I liked these two people through fruit. Mmhmm.
As life would have it, the night before the baby shower, I went out and I, uh, got classy trashy.
I stumbled back into my apartment and plopped on my bed, boots and all, when I remembered: the fruit salad!
I got up slowly, because that’s what you do when you’ve had one too many, and made my way to the kitchen. I wielded my ceramic chef knife around and cut up the fruit. Oh yeah…they were going to love my fruit salad. Mm mm! Fruit!
Anyway, the baby shower was a success. We made merry and showered the mom-to-be with presents for Incoming Baby. It was the closest thing to a family Sunday afternoon that I had had in a few months, so I felt pretty happy to partake in an activity I would most likely avoid like the plague back home.
A few days later, while exchanging drinking stories, I decided to tell the story of my drunken fruit cubing skills with my sweet blade.
“What was it for, anyway?” asked my French friend.
I was stumped. How do you say baby shower in French!? Bébé douche?
“Um…in English is called a ‘Baby Shower’”, I replied.
She stared at me. Her French eyes filling with French judgement.
To make the story short: why on God’s great Earth would we celebrate and gift a baby that is not born yet? What if the baby dies before it is born? (this was an actual question). We were decidedly the craziest and most obtuse society for partaking insuch activities.
An uncomfortable silence ensued, my friend looked down and laughed at herself.
I sat in silence, feeling sillier than a jeune fille.