If British women are dragons – formidable, fire breathing (and very often even quite Green) – then French women are lynx- – fine-boned, crafty, predatory felines (and very often even with tufts of black hair on the extremities). After more than 15 years’ observation of the species, I’m still in awe at the incisiveness and stealth with which they operate.
Some of my best friends now are ‘lynx’ – but it’s taken quite a few years and, rather tellingly, a few wrinkles, to achieve this. In my days as a ‘célibataire’ I was, at worst, regarded as The Enemy and, at best, an Unknown Quantity (read: potentially a husband-pinching hussy). I am happy to report that I now have a husband (my own), young son and bags under my eyes and am viewed with less suspicion.
I was once accused of flirting with a certain Jean-Yves (pronounce ‘Yves’ to rhyme with ‘heave’) by his wife. Can you believe that she was actually more upset when I told her that if sharing a dinner table with her husband I had to concentrate on keeping my food down, not entertain the idea of sharing anything else with him ? Instead of being reassured by the fact I found her husband totally and utterly hideous, she was extremely put out… now where’s the logic in that?
Whereas a British women would attack her husband for having an affair, French women, believing (or rather, wanting to believe) that their husbands are beyond reproach, will almost always attack the Other Woman. Is this perhaps a tribute to the original small Frenchman, Napoleon, whose code gave husbands sweeping powers over their wives and men were regarded as faultless and women as second-class citizens?
It hasn’t all been bad though – I’ve been on the receiving end of some useful advice and even compliments. When I was pregnant several French girls happily offered to sign me up for Weight Watchers and I was once even told that my cooking was ‘surprisingly good for an Ingleesh person’. On the subject of weight watching, I notice that another dieting book has just been published entitled ‘French Women Don’t Get Fat.’ I haven’t read it, but imagine it describes their overtly feminine ways at the dining table – copious glasses of mineral water and an inherently morbid fear of carbohydrates and sugar. I have to admit though, my first reaction was very uncharitable and something along the lines of : ‘You bet your life they don’t get fat ; how can you put on weight on a diet of nicotine and finger nails ?’
Which brings me to another perennial insecurity among the female population here : wrinkles. A greater percentage of women in France believe they are prone to wrinkles than in any other European country. The household budget sees the monthly facial and eyebrow plucking outgoings right up there next to fuel for the boiler and staple food products. Although if I’m honest, this insecurity is contagious (well it is in my case) much to the delight of Monsieur Clarins et al (and my skin !)
While Anglo-Saxon women tend to shoot from the hip, French ladies don’t shoot at all – they smoulder, though very stylishly and sexily it has to be said. Just one word of advice though : never marry a Frenchwoman’s brother !
