Alas, I doubt Karl Lagerbear here ever went on sale, otherwise he might have been mine.
Many moons ago (well, a year and a half ago. I'm still having trouble with metric conversions, let alone time-to-moon conversions), not long after my arrival in France, I discovered the first of many clues that France and Ohio are not, in fact, the same thing at all. Having been forewarned that one does not enter a store simply to browse, I was alerted to the exception to that rule: you are more than free to enter a store without explicit intent to buy during the soldes, or sales. The Sales, I asked? I come from a land where, yes, there is a slight rhythm to the retail cycle (there is a definite "off season" to certain items, thus how I managed to get almost all of my fancy high school dance dresses for less than $20), but there was always a sale rack somewhere in the store, it's just a matter of heading straight for the back and ignoring everything hung up in an orderly fashion on hangers. But not so in France: there is an actual law regulating when retailers can offer items at a discount. Thus, a whole year's worth of bargain shopping must be cut down into two 5-week segments, one in January, and one in July.
Back in the day (so, more moons than the moons that have happened since I've been in France), I used to classify certain periods of my life based on what play was happening roughly around that time (for example, the beginning of my junior year of college, when my romance with AH was just coming into full bloom, will always have the soundtrack of the big Cole Porter musical I was in at the time). Monday, coming home with my arms full of (still outrageously expensive) baby clothes, I had a startling revelation: I could do something similar with my life in France by looking back on the four soldes I've experience since I've been here. So according to this theory, my expat life could be divided thusly:
January 2011
Fresh off the boat (plane) and even more clueless than I am now (if that can be believed). We were nomadic for most of that sale season, but had managed to find our first apartment at Cite Universitaire toward the end of the month. With AH off battling the Hobbit Hill and playing with lasers during the day, I was forcing myself to get out and about and explore the city. And what better motivator to do that than shopping? The problem was that I had absolutely no idea where to go: this was the days before my sister directed me to all the wonders of BHV and the Marais (yes, embarassingly enough, it took a New Yorker to point out Paris' great shopping district), and Paris isn't really known for it's malls (except Les Halles, which...*shudder*). But hey, I was in Europe! H&M is Dutch (or Swedish or Norwegian, or somewhere cold and full of blondes)! So I googled the nearest H&M, and hopped onto a metro. Friends, this is how fresh off the plane I was: this was my first time ever using a metro (I had only used the RER up until that point), because I remember being so proud of myself for doing it all by myself without AH. Seriously, you'd think I had mastered hang-gliding or something. But anyway, off to the H&M on Rue de Rennes I went.
The trip was mostly uneventful with the exception of two discoveries. The first was that, while it is typically annoying to be possessed of more junk in the proverbial trunk than the average Parisian, it means that I (and others of my size-ilk) make out like bandits during the sales: all of the 0-6 clothes are gone the first week, whereas size 12 ladies get their leisurely pick of the good stuff right up until the end (by which time the discounts have usually increased, thus ensuring maximum cheapness). Bomb diggity. The other discovery was that apparently putting a skirt on over your jeans in the aisles when the line for the cabines is really unreasonably long will earn you one patented French Disapproving Glare, as well as a tongue-lashing. At the time I was mortified and defensive. Now, I think fondly back on that bitchy salesman, as he was really just doing his part to break me into the peculiarities of French culture.
Erin and I at Thanksgiving dinner at church, long after our shopping spree, obvi.
Starting to get the hang of things (sort of). This was a time in my life when I learned the lesson that has been crucial to my survival during my time abroad: the trick isn't necessarily knowing what's going on, but knowing who to ask what the heck is going on.By this time I'd begun working teaching theater camps with Erin, the woman who was fast becoming a very good friend. In addition to all other ways that she is wonderful, she also knows where a girl with a serious sundress fetish and limited income can go to get her fix. Thus one day after class, she opened my eyes to the delightful world of C&A, the only store in Paris even kind of resembling a Kohl's. I don't know that AH was ever allowed to see those receipts.
January 2012
Erin and I continue our tradition of hitting the soldes, but alas a slight wrench has been thrown into our plans: I am about 4 weeks pregnant, and only AH and I are any the wiser about the occupied state of my womb. I kick around the idea telling Erin, but as we haven't even yet had the chance to tell our parents that we'll soon have a Fellow Traveler, I decide to keep mum. Which, if you know me, is EXCRUCIATING. Seriously, I am the world's worst secret keeper of my own secrets; that's probably why I don't really have any. And so we go through Monoprix, Erin modelling all sorts of adorable sundresses, me trying only trying on muumuu-like pieces. I can see the good friend dilemma going through Erin's head: do I tell her that shapeless sack is doing nothing for her, or do I merely try to direct her towards garments that actually have a waist? I mumble some lame excuse about, "well, maybe I'll be pregnant by the summer," but this is still clearly not excuse enough for the tents I am dragging into the dressing room with me. I decide to forgo dress shopping all together and settle on a roomy green coat.
I'm being wildly restrained (by my usual standards) until we get to BHV. And this is when I make a decision that still slightly baffles me. Not long before I discovered I was pregnant, I took a good hard look at my wardrobe and realized that, in the few short years since college, it had become so darn practical (by which I mean, it was full of things that I would be able to wear to work or to church without anyone calling child services on me). This was unacceptable: I was 25, goshdarnit, surely I would have occasion to wear an impractically low-cut dress sometime in the near future! I kept an eye out, but when would such a dress finally decide to appear? That's right, friend. 4 weeks into my pregnancy.
And so, did I maturely say to myself, "not only will you not be able to zip yourself into this much longer, you're about to be someone's mother; now really is the time to start PUTTING IT AWAY." Clearly not. Thus that particular soldes (as well as that dress, which eventually was given a happy home by Erin) will always remind me of that time in my early pregnancy when I was still delusional and telling myself, "hey, I'll be a hip young mom who can totally leave baby at home and go out till the wee hours of the morning wearing what is essentially a sequined gynecological smock!". Oh, silly, silly Allison.
July 2012
Yeah, I've given up that ghost. And it's ok: I've made the marvelous discovery that the pregnancy wardrobe is much more comfy that the mid-20's clubbing wardrobe (seriously, maternity jeans: all the comfort of sweat pants while still getting to look like you actually care. Why do normal jeans have zippers? I am not looking forward to making the transition back). And so the past few weeks I've been happily hitting up the big baby store, Aubert, in Paris with soon-to-be Auntie Erin, as well as another expecting mama friend (with twins! I do not envy her stroller decision). I've also been trolling the Carrefour and Monoprix out near my new digs, looking for a suitable shoe-rack (I know, life in the suburbs is KRAZEE!). But while introducing expecting mama friend to the wonders of C&A (look, the circle is complete!), I did wander over to the accessories department while she was in the dressing room. I may not have any more illusions about sexy dresses, but I could treat myself to a flashy ring or a new necklace, right? Except that, first of all, I need more jewelry like I need a hole in the head. Secondly, little FT has tainted even my love of shiny things: I couldn't look at the earrings without thinking about how much it will hurt when she decides to yank on them, nor could I look at the necklaces without imagining her yanking on the chain and breaking it (apparently, in all my paranoid fantasies my baby is the Hulk). So sigh, no new goodies for mom. But on the plus side, hey:
Um, these come with matching bloomers. Who can say that about their Sexy Dress?
January 2012
Erin and I continue our tradition of hitting the soldes, but alas a slight wrench has been thrown into our plans: I am about 4 weeks pregnant, and only AH and I are any the wiser about the occupied state of my womb. I kick around the idea telling Erin, but as we haven't even yet had the chance to tell our parents that we'll soon have a Fellow Traveler, I decide to keep mum. Which, if you know me, is EXCRUCIATING. Seriously, I am the world's worst secret keeper of my own secrets; that's probably why I don't really have any. And so we go through Monoprix, Erin modelling all sorts of adorable sundresses, me trying only trying on muumuu-like pieces. I can see the good friend dilemma going through Erin's head: do I tell her that shapeless sack is doing nothing for her, or do I merely try to direct her towards garments that actually have a waist? I mumble some lame excuse about, "well, maybe I'll be pregnant by the summer," but this is still clearly not excuse enough for the tents I am dragging into the dressing room with me. I decide to forgo dress shopping all together and settle on a roomy green coat.
I'm being wildly restrained (by my usual standards) until we get to BHV. And this is when I make a decision that still slightly baffles me. Not long before I discovered I was pregnant, I took a good hard look at my wardrobe and realized that, in the few short years since college, it had become so darn practical (by which I mean, it was full of things that I would be able to wear to work or to church without anyone calling child services on me). This was unacceptable: I was 25, goshdarnit, surely I would have occasion to wear an impractically low-cut dress sometime in the near future! I kept an eye out, but when would such a dress finally decide to appear? That's right, friend. 4 weeks into my pregnancy.
I kept the dress just long enough to take pictures of myself in it. Anyway, AH didn't much care for it;
he said it made me look like I have the chest of a 12-year-old boy.
And so, did I maturely say to myself, "not only will you not be able to zip yourself into this much longer, you're about to be someone's mother; now really is the time to start PUTTING IT AWAY." Clearly not. Thus that particular soldes (as well as that dress, which eventually was given a happy home by Erin) will always remind me of that time in my early pregnancy when I was still delusional and telling myself, "hey, I'll be a hip young mom who can totally leave baby at home and go out till the wee hours of the morning wearing what is essentially a sequined gynecological smock!". Oh, silly, silly Allison.
July 2012
Yeah, I've given up that ghost. And it's ok: I've made the marvelous discovery that the pregnancy wardrobe is much more comfy that the mid-20's clubbing wardrobe (seriously, maternity jeans: all the comfort of sweat pants while still getting to look like you actually care. Why do normal jeans have zippers? I am not looking forward to making the transition back). And so the past few weeks I've been happily hitting up the big baby store, Aubert, in Paris with soon-to-be Auntie Erin, as well as another expecting mama friend (with twins! I do not envy her stroller decision). I've also been trolling the Carrefour and Monoprix out near my new digs, looking for a suitable shoe-rack (I know, life in the suburbs is KRAZEE!). But while introducing expecting mama friend to the wonders of C&A (look, the circle is complete!), I did wander over to the accessories department while she was in the dressing room. I may not have any more illusions about sexy dresses, but I could treat myself to a flashy ring or a new necklace, right? Except that, first of all, I need more jewelry like I need a hole in the head. Secondly, little FT has tainted even my love of shiny things: I couldn't look at the earrings without thinking about how much it will hurt when she decides to yank on them, nor could I look at the necklaces without imagining her yanking on the chain and breaking it (apparently, in all my paranoid fantasies my baby is the Hulk). So sigh, no new goodies for mom. But on the plus side, hey:
I have a friend that was wearing maternity jeans after her baby turned one...then she got pregnant again, so maybe she'll never go back to normal ones!
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