Swimming In the Deep End

Turns out, I like yapping about adventure, but when push comes to shove, it's all I can do to tear myself away from my comfort zone and the soul-deadening daily routine.

Take, for example, last night.

I didn't want to go to that French gig I was telling you about. I had a headache, it was snowing out. I'd have to put together an "outfit," schlep across town during rush hour, and converse in a foreign language with a group of strangers.

Why, I asked myself, would a person put herself in such a position when she could just as easily don pants with an elastic waistband, take a Ty1eno1, and stretch out on her couch for a night of Internet and TV?

Well . . . because I fear that changing things up every now and again is the only thing that stands between me and a house dress, rollers, and plastic furniture slipcovers at some point down the line.

Because it's time to start chipping away at the shell I've spent the last decade or so building around myself, afraid and unwilling to forge new, true, and honest friendships. Because I want to invite more beauty and nuance into my life, and because I've read one too many new age self help books.

Just as my repressed inner optimist suspected, breaking out was a good thing. At the very least, it didn't kill me, and I got an opportunity to crank up neural synapses that hadn't seen action in years.

I met my friend in the museum lobby, where the francophiles had already begun gathering. Sure, there were a few impeccably knotted Hermes scarves and imperial Gallic profiles, but no one was putting a gun to my head, demanding a certain death conjugation showdown.

Alas, starting up a French conversation with a person you are accustomed to speaking with only in English is both awkward and terrifying, like diving into the deep end wearing a bikini that's one size too big. There's no way around it except to pinch your nose, jump, and hope your thong stays put.

We dove in. The water wasn't nearly as cold as I'd expected, and I immediately remembered how to tread. Once I realized that my friend's french skills were as rudimentary as my own, well, I daresay I began straight up doggy paddling.

There were, of course, a lot of frenzied hand gestures, elaborate commentary about the weather, and the odd English word with a French ending tacked on mid-sentence, but we made do. The important thing was that we understood each other and no native speakers approached us.

The group received a private tour of the special exhibit featuring turn-of-the-century decadence in the House of Faberge, Tiffany, and Lalique. Before you knew it, I was flipping around like a veritable Shamu and offering total strangers my opinion of Princess Kelly's never-before-seen Faberge egg: "C'est cool, ca."

One thing I didn't do was try to purposefully strike up actual conversation with other attendees. I may be looking for adventure, but I don't have a death wish. During the dinner portion of the evening, my companion and I sat with a chap whose language skills were very much on par with our own. The three of us concluded that it was snowing out, poulet frites are pleasing to us, and there's a train station nearby.

Also, I might have offered him a job at my friend's restaurant, to which I'm pretty sure he replied "I, too, enjoy skiiing."

Anyway, it's a start. I am going to try to attend next month's event if I can, maybe even work up the courage to bust out some freestyle moves.

Welcome to my year of swimming in the deep end.

The Haps Chez Rama

Readers, I have been crossing items off my New Years Rez list with wild abandon.

I made a new friend recently (see Rez # 9), and she invited me to attend a dinner/lecture at the art museum with her later this week (see Rez #10).

The only catch is that it's all part of some sort of french language "circle" where I'll bet everyone wears fetching scarves and stands around speaking only en francais all night long.

It's what I get for running my mouth about spending that junior year abroad every chance I have. People assume I'm still a francophone, but the sad fact of the matter is that my once solid language skills have been reduced to a single phrase: "Je ne comprends pas."

Normally, I have no problems with meeting new people and engaging in small talk. I have a litany of foolproof conversation starters, ranging from my year abroad, of course, to my thoughts on communism and the incident of the skin tag on the operating table. Unfortunately, my vocabulary skills on these topics are limited to English and Lithuanian.

Well, if you need me, I'll be at the local library, boning up on the past imperfect and putting myself into a tizzy over what to wear.

A bien-tot, chers liseurs!
-Rima de la Rama

*****************************************************************************************

P.S. Remember the episode when I thought the chick from Jazzercise was trying to pick a fight with me?

Well, thanks to lovely Loralee of the Looney Tunes, that post is being re-published at BlogNosh Magazine today! It is the apex of my blogging career.

You should go over there and check the place out. I hear they have an excellent wine list, good ambiance, and something for every palate. (Although I fear my post might fall under the "How Did This One Get Past the Radar?" category.)