As those who know me are well aware, I am not sophisticated, chic or in any way French. Which is why the culture shock of being torn away from my comforts of cheap peanut butter, the channel Really and a shower that doesn't drip, and being cast 500 miles from home (I'm singing it too, don't worry) has suddenly set in. It's a very different feeling than the one I had going to uni in the first place - literally 30 miles from home in Leicester to Nottingham - but not just for the distance.
As the full moon rises, the darkness draws in and I decide a coat is a better purchase than a jar of Nutella the size of my head, the transformation is complete and I am suddenly aware that I AM AN ADULT! This worrying behaviour of early nights, more time reading the paper and eating fruit tells me I am growing up. In France. Sacré bleu indeed. Yesterday for example I had to make a phonecall that still doesn't make any sense. With the electricity company. This was like the David and Goliath of French conversation, Rocky v Apollo, and with my heart beating in my ears I meekly asked Gérome, the lovely man on the other end to help me out. And I did it...IN FRENCH. Oh that's right ladies and gentlemen, I didn't back out, ask to be spoken to in English or lose my train of thought, cry down the phone and hang up, I spoke in French! I must admit that my transition from socially recluse introverted twenty year old to fully mature adult did suffer setbacks, in the form of the impromptu Carlton Banks dance party I held for myself shortly after Gérome and I said "au revoir", but rather ironically, baby steps!
Anyone who has had the move from England to France and has heard their mother use the phrase "self-sufficient" a bazillion times will know this feeling of growing up. Well done guys, pats on the back and croissants all round, we deserve it. We deserve to swagger out of a lecture having comprehended more than 30% of what went on, we deserve to high five everyone we meet because we've managed to send a postcard home and the fact that we spoke on the phone to someone IN FRANCE? Well, that's a well earned glass of rosé, my friend. It might seem that just a simple phone call to someone explaining that I'm a new residence and that I'd like to pay the bill at the end of the month is getting me over-excited and animated, making me feel like a real actual functioning adult, but in reality, it's almost like the penny has dropped, and that the dark cloud of homesickness and self doubt is melting away into the sun (rendering my new coat impractical). Without self-deprecating too much, I have never been the one to lead, always a follower, so this is the boost I've been waiting for. I have always been the lost one, wearing too much eyeliner and drinking tea at impractical hours. It's like Monica says in Friends, "welcome to the real world, it sucks, you're gonna love it!" and you know what? I sort of do. It's time to don my sunglasses, stick on some Beyoncé, dance around my room and shout I AM AN ADULT AND I CAN DO AS I PLEASE!
Swiftly followed by serious study, the news and another apple. I am a serious adult, after all, of course.
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