I hate shopping. I hate confronting the difference between what a beautiful dress looks like on a hanger and on my body. I hate making decisions. (Another black dress? Or am I ready to show on the outside how iconoclastic I am on the inside, by wearing, say, neon orange?) And then there’s the pesky little detail about money. (Shouldn’t I just put every penny into my kids’ college funds?)
But here I am in Paris, during the twice-a-year season of soldes. Everything is on sale, marked way, way down. Plus I didn’t bring enough underwear.
My husband and I are alone for a few days while the kids are at camp. Even the dog has a sitter. And, since we’re in the Land of Lingerie, an underthings store beckons me on every block.
The last time I shopped for unmentionables was a year ago, again during the season of soldes, right before our sabbatical year here ended. I thought I’d gotten over my feelings of inadequacy vis-a-vis the natives (French women are so tiny! So chic!) I’d recovered from the fear that the boutiques wouldn’t even have anything that fit me. I knew my French bra size now. I took off the one I was wearing and looked at the tag. Then laughed out loud.
Why? Because the size is a ludicrously high number.
In America I am a 36, but in France I am a 90. (No need to remind myself that my dress size went from 8 to 38 and my shoe size from 7 to 37. I can just ignore the numbers I don’t like, the way politicians do.)
I’ll try to pretend I don’t know that the difference has to do with centimeters being smaller than inches. I’ll tell myself that all I had to do was fly over the Atlantic and my breasts almost tripled in size. And my weight, in kilos, is almost half its imperial number. Those 90-size breasts must be filled with something as light as fantasy. I imagine slipping my shirts over a couple of hot air balloons.
I bought a bra and panties to replace the ones that had stretched out and faded since last year. I also nabbed a lacy red nuisette. I didn’t actually need a nightie, but it was 50 percent off. Judging from how little fabric there was, it seems only fair that I was able to buy it for next to nothing.
So I still have a little money left to take care of my kids. But I’m not going to think about that—or them—tonight.