I have a confession to make. I’m not French. And I don’t speak French. I do speak Swahili, but that’s entirely irrelevant to this blog post. French, on the other hand, is something with which I happen to be moderately obsessed, frequently dropping in French words in conversation like “sans,” despite my complete and utter lack of knowledge of the language. It’s actually more accurate to say I’m completely obsessed with all-things-Paris in general, really.
The obsession started when I first visited Paris in 2007.
It was further fueled by a return trip in 2011.
Then came the multiple framed Paris photos in my home:
Then came the hipster-like French themed sweaters:
Over the past year, I have only been further emboldened by the fact that RM is part French. That’s right—you heard me correctly. His grandmother, more fondly known as Grandmama, still has the most wonderful French accent. Pretty legit, right? On top of that, RM’s mom is a French teacher born in France, and RM himself even speaks excellent French. I’ve now perfected adding these nuggets to normal every day conversations with complete strangers, “Well, you know, my boyfriend is part French. Oh yes, he speaks French.” I feel like it immediately gives me street cred.
All of that said, I know the only thing that will really give me street cred. And that’s this:
One would think that having a part French boyfriend, complete with French Grandmama, one would take advantage of said situation. Unfortunately, I’ve found the idea of attempting to learn French quite intimidating. Until now. I’ve decided I’m going to take the bull by the horns and parle Francais.
À bientôt, mo’ fos.