Rando in NJ

Antithesis to Emily in Paris

Source: Wikimedia Commons

I’m watching an episode of Emily in Paris on Netflix when I discover I’ve got sticky onion jam smeared under my chin from my sandwich at lunch half an hour ago. I’m wearing an $8 Target t-shirt with denim shorts, and I’ve got bags under my eyes from being so tired.

Meanwhile, Emily is having another fabulous day walking about Paris. She’s rail thin, wears expensive couture, and is always in heels with perfect makeup and hair. Yet, Emily is referred to as “basic” by a French designer. If she’s basic, then what the hell am I?

I’ve been known to watch movies just for their filming locations, such as Eat, Pray, Love. Which is why I’m now watching this show, which I understand has received quite some backlash, especially from the French. I totally get why. But I’m going to keep watching anyway, to live vicariously through this character who lingers at cafes and drifts around with a perpetual smile on her face. The scenery alone makes it worth my time.

The show is such a far cry from my reality as a middle aged, muffin-topped suburbanite that I welcome it with the desperation of a thirsty person being handed a cup of ice water.

Most of my shame as a pudgy plain Jane is generated in my car, where I regularly pig out, which means I’ve had all kinds of atrocities occur on the dash, on the seats, on the steering wheel, and even the seatbelt.

Cream cheese is the worst offender. Every time I chow down on a toasted everything bagel, the cream cheese gets smeared all over. And of course, I have to have a cup of coffee with my bagel, which drips and sloshes all over my clothes and the upholstery.

Yesterday I ate a chocolate dipped ice cream bar while driving. The ice cream started melting down onto my hand, and as the chocolate coating cracked apart that started melting as well. Pretty soon I had one hand completely out of commission. Meanwhile, I had to use the back of my other hand to wipe melted chocolate from around my mouth. I didn’t have any napkins in the car, and even if there had been, I didn’t have a hand free to grab one.

If a police officer had pulled me over right then, he’d have looked at my childishly grubby hands and been like, “What in tarnation is going on here?”

“Well, Sir,” I’d say, “I just murdered an ice cream bar. Actually, two. You don’t happen to have any Wet Wipes on you, do you?”

You would never see this scene on Emily in Paris.

So, binge-watching season one of this rom-com it is! Just to tune out the shame.