So Come On and Let Me Know...

Ah, the fog of stress that has been my life the past week was finally lifted last night amidst a cloud of celebratory chicken wings and (much) beer.  My finals have all been turned in, my government-mandated integration courses have been completed, and the children's production of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas that I was helping out with was performed without a single kid peeing himself on stage (which is my measure of success for children's performances).  I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, and that light is a trip to Cologne, Germany, followed by the arrival of my favorite siblings-in-law (that would be all of them because, really, I can't pick a favorite). 

Indeed, it is mighty nice to indulge my love of trashy fantasy novels and facebook stalking without that touch of self-loathing that comes from knowing that I really should be spending my time more productively.  However, now that my mind isn't occupied by a million and ten other things, it has begun wandering back to my nagging question of the month: where am I going to be this time next year?

Allow me to explain.  At this time last month, I assumed that AH and I would be leaving France in March.  Then, a job opportunity came up that would keep us here for another two years.  Then we were back to September of 2012.  And now, for the moment, it's looking like another year.

Now, to be clear, our future is far from set in stone.  In fact, I make no assumptions until I know that a contract has been signed.  But every time AH comes home and asks me, “How would you feel about leaving in three months?,” “How about nine months?,” “How about two years?,” I’m forced to think about what up until recently has only been vaguely forming at the periphery of my consciousness.  At some point, I stopped being a long-term tourist and started being an expat.  I’m no longer simply gallivanting about on a pastry-cloud; I’ve actually made a life for myself here.  So now the question is, is the life that I want to continue living?  For how long?

The universe, knowing that his question is weighing on my mind something fierce, has put me on the receiving end of two folks reflecting on their time in Paris over the last few days.  The first was the mother of two of the young denizens of Whoville.  While making small-talk, I asked her how long she had been in Paris.  She responded that she had been here with her family for five years but that they were about to move.  When I asked why she responded, “Because I think my children can’t keep living the Parisian life indefinitely.  We spent the summer in Canada, and I forgot how easy things are other places.  There is just so much in Paris that is difficult, and none of it needs to be.”

And of course, in the midst of my own needlessly difficult Parisian circumstance, aka my government-mandated integration class, the instructor offered the opposing argument.  “Some people say that life in Paris is difficult, and they’re right.  But just try.  Try, and it won’t be so hard.  Try, and it’s worth it.”

Now this man counts French as his first language and is married to a French citizen, but still: dude’s got a point.  So far, I haven’t tried any harder than I’ve needed to, I’ve been satisfied with just getting by.  I keep telling myself that I’ll pick up French by putting the French subtitles on my Sex and the City DVD’s.  Looking for an apartment in Paris sucks, so I live in a dorm with the square footage of a Ford Focus and no kitchen table; AH and I eat dinner every night at my desk watching The Daily Show on my laptop like a couple of undergrads.  I have American friends, work for an American family, and go to an American school.  And all of this is fine for a person who is going to be living in a country for less than a year.  I largely credit any success I’ve had adjusting to life abroad to having realistic expectations.  I’ve been content to wander through Parisian life, trying not to be too hard on myself when I have to flap like a lunatic at the salesgirl to get her to understand what I need, and absorbing the culture as I go.  But if I’m going to continue living here, I need to quite pretending that I’m a sponge and actually wade out deeper into the Frenchy Frenchness around me.

My real dilemma, though, is not simply in how many hours of French classes I think I can fit into a week along with work and seminary classes, or even the prospect of finding a decent apartment in Paris.  I’m wrestling with the anxiety of trying to become a real grown-up, not a post-college nomad.  And it’s not my biological clock that’s making me anxious.  Rather it’s an itch to just put down roots; I can practically feel them trying to unfurl, searching for soil that they can burrow into, trying to anchor me to something safe and steady.  But I think that this might be the challenge of my quarter-life crisis: discovering that maybe rootedness won’t look like what I had always pictured it to be.  Maybe it doesn’t involve a two story house and a couple of corgis.  Maybe rootedness is more about what I’m willing to invest, rather than any sense of stability that I might gain in return. 

Perhaps this is for the best.  After all, if my life circumstances continue to largely be dictated by a laser, I’m going to have to stick to a sense of security that doesn’t involve corgis.