Can you live like a Parisian and not get fired?
I swapped spreadsheets for striped tops and glasses of Sancerre to find out
Despite a decades-long love affair with berets, pain au chocolat and stinky cheese, I’ve never been to Paris. The City of Lights, for me, lives only on the runways, in the movies and in that one season of Sex and the City when Carrie moves there with Petrovsky. Do impossibly beautiful women cycle around with slightly smudged red lips and baguettes tossed carelessly into their bike baskets? Are schedules just suggestions? Do Parisians really take boozy two-hour lunches on the average work day? And if they do, how do they … stay employed? I like to believe I’m laid-back, but I know in my spreadsheet-loving heart that it would be difficult for me to embrace the Parisian approach to life without reverting to my hyper-organized ways — I enjoy a glass of chilled Alsace as much as the next gal but I
lovecrossing things off my to-do list. Rather than hop the Atlantic with an overstuffed suitcase to see for myself, I embarked on a challenge to live like a Parisian for a day — or at least how I think a Parisian lives according to film, fantasy and clichés — to see if I could live my best French life and not get fired (or have a stress aneurysm). Venez, won’t you?
On the appointed morning, my alarm goes off and I imagine that my French alter-ego (she would have a cool-yetclassic name like Jeanne) would choose to rise or not based on how rested she feels, not on where she’s supposed to be, and when. I resist the urge to run through my day’s schedule and try (unsuccessfully) to snooze a little longer.
After I hop out of the shower, I resolve to use only French beauty products for
the day. I dab my favourite pharmacy product, Aquaphor, on my lips and drop a Chanel lip gloss in my bag, feeling very pleased with myself until I catch a glimpse of my manicure. The cream shellac base with aqua blue polka dots that I thought was so cute suddenly looks vulgaire when viewed through a Parisian lens. I consider booking an emergency removal in favour of a clear buff or classic red polish, but decide to emulate the French laissez-faire attitude instead. The gauche nail art stays.
I leave the house and forgo bringing my usual bursting tote bag in addition to
my purse. I’ve decided that a chic Parisian would find the double bag to be the epitome of tacky. Sure, I have nowhere to stash a Tupperware of leftovers or that backup shoe option, but I feel positively unencumbered on my walk. Lunch out it is!
Around the time I’m usually arriving at the office, I stroll to my local bakery and order a full-fat latte and croissant only to be told they have none of the buttery crescents I’m craving. I pivot to a fresh blueberry scone, murmuring
“C’est la vie!” and sit on the patio. I stow my phone in my bag (scrolling zombieeyed through Instagram = so not chic) and leisurely read a book while enjoying my petit déj.
Despite promising myself I absolutely will not warn anyone about my Parisian experiment, my fingers will not listen to my brain and I shoot off a quick email to my manager to let her know I’m not dead but on assignment as the elusive Jeanne. I feel like I cheated but her “LOL” response makes me relax.
I arrive at the office sometime after 10 a.m. and am given a task that would normally strike terror in my heart on a busy Friday: to walk to the farmer’s market to grab provisions for a Paristhemed party we’re having to fete a long weekend. I make a beeline for the most intimidating fromagerie where the cheese guys tower over you from a platform behind the counter. I ask for a creamy Camembert and a hunk of nutty Comté and inquire about pâté, all with my passable French accent and decent knowledge of the stuff (I’m a native Montrealer who spent her late teens working in a French bakery, after all). He tries to sell me a microscopic tin of foie gras for $25 and while people-pleasing Jenn might have felt awkward turning down his suggestion, self-assured Jeanne delivers a firm “Non, merci,” pays for the fromage, grabs a couple baguettes and returns to the office feeling proud. (I even pause on my meander back to work to snap some selfies and don’t check my email once. Who am I?!)
I work for the rest of the day, pausing to enjoy a mid-afternoon wine and cheese with my colleagues. I play a game of French trivia while sipping rosé and don’t glance at the time on my phone. Scheduling weekend Instagram posts can wait when there is heavenly fromage to be lovingly spread on hunks of white crusty bread and homemade blueberry galette to inhale!
And guess what? The work got done. I didn’t need the backup shoes. I kept my job — and I didn’t drop dead from stress. In fact, my day of embracing the French way of life had the opposite effect: By forcing myself to slow down, stop watching a clock and savour the pleasure in things like a sun-drenched walk, I felt happy and relaxed. I won’t be able to live like a Parisian every day, but I’ve resolved to take 15 minutes some mornings to actually taste my breakfast and swap a sad desk lunch for a meal outside the office at least once a week moving forward. Hell, I might even order Chardonnay. Jeanne would be proud.
Jennifer Berry is the digital editor of The Kit, based in Toronto. She writes about fashion and culture. Reach her on email at jb@thekit.ca or follow her on Twitter: @heyjennberry
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