A Good French Dressing

Bleary eyed and tired, I dragged myself to an 8am lecture Wednesday morning, cursing at the university for making me wake up whilst it was still dark. My hair, despite wrestling with a brush, sticking out at various angles and I'm fairly certain my low maintenance make up routine that day left me looking like Stig of the Dump. But at least it was early and I could be home to actually reassess my visible situation two hours later. 

Two hours later, I walked outside and to my horror, total and utter terror, the French students had arrived. And it was like Paris Fashion Week.

Just standing by the entrance of the university building, I saw a girl. Michael Kors bag slung on her arm, hair poker straight, walking like she in fact owned France. To my left, I recoiled in self-loathing as I saw another girl hop off her rental bike, readjust her sunglasses and totter inside...IN HEELS. I will admit that I am making myself out to sound like I was wearing a bin bag and slept by the Rhone river, when actually I did make the effort to put a skirt on and even dug out my eyebrow pencil for the day, but I wasn't winning America's Next Top Model that day, let's just say. I have still not mastered the art of French chic. 

French dressing (the act of clothing, not like a salad topping) is an elusive mystery. For the cool French chicks riding their bikes in five inch stilettos, it's second nature, something they were born with, or something their mum taught them whilst eating baguettes at light-speed, three glasses of vin rouge on the go. For us Estrasmuses, myself in particular, it is something I must learn and in the meantime trying to not trip over the laces on my Doc Martens. Until this day comes, I have compiled a list of ways in which I could appear to be less dorky-Brit-abroad and more native-Franco-German-delight.

1. Stop letting your nail varnish chip.

2. Wine counts as lunch.

3. Zara and Mango are your new best friends.

4. Nobody cool takes the tram. 

5. I really need a Michael Kors bag.

So for someone typing this with three glittery nails on each hand, drinking chamomile tea wearing a Norwich City shirt, it's going well. Of course these things aren't going to transform me into a Francaise at the stroke of midnight, during a full moon, in full daylight, whatever. But whilst I'm here, I thought I might as well give "fitting in" a bash. I am still yet to master heels on solid ground before attempting to cycle in them, and I actually enjoy my daily tram ride, so maybe I am still sticking out like the un-chic bag lady that this post has unintentionally made me out to be (I'm really not, I just like Topshop!), however I can rest easy knowing I am not parading around in a bumbag, I HEART ALSACE hoodie and socks and sandals combination. There is always hope. Now where did I leave that beret..?