By now, everyone in my twice-a-week French class is aware that my sole reason for learning French is so that I may speak the native language of mon fiance, Mr. Pinault. As a modern-minded female who likes to set her own agenda, I’m a little sheepish that my ambitions should blatantly reflect my emotional dependence on a man, although my fellow students seem to find my endeavor to be admirable.
“I’ve had boyfriends where I don’t even bother to learn the family members’ names,” the young urban sophisticate who is moving to Montreal admitted to me. “Like, don’t clog my mind with too many details. So, for you to learn a new language, that’s devotion. That’s the sort of relationship I ultimately want to end up in.
“The last guy I dated had one kidney,” she went on to tell me. I raised my eyebrows in surprised horror. “And, you know, they say that having one kidney doesn’t make a difference, but it really does. He just seemed so fragile and bird-like all the time.
“So, you know, I want a guy with two kidneys, and a guy who knows the meaning of the word ‘courtship,'” she said straight-faced.
“You like romantics,” I stated sympathetically.
“No, really, he must know the meaning of the word. All the men I meet have such lackluster vocabularies,” she said with a wink in her voice.
Ah, I love a good wit. Reminds me of myself, before I found my two-kidneyed prince.
