When I lived in France I was always in awe of the understated and simplistic loveliness so many women seemed to easily pull off.  It’s an impossible mixture of self confidence, a life-long interest in fashion and an honest aloofness you can’t fake.

Not every woman in France, contrary to a common opinion of American women; have it.  But, many, especially in Paris and around Cannes and Nice, do.  When I was there I became a little obsessed with what truly cultivated their “daring—” not just why they were pretty and put together, but the generally upbringing that might generated a variety of women who seemed blessed and absent of the fear and worry that seems to plague American girls.

I don’t buy that French women don’t diet, but they do seem a little more balanced and unafraid of everything they put on their plate—and that seems to sum up their general existence.  They were more in touch with who they were than I’d ever allowed myself to be.  If a French woman felt pouty, she was.  She wasn’t left biting her lip wondering if she would give the undesirable air of bitchy malcontent or snobbishness and be judged.  

I lived with a French family while I was there—six daughters and a single mother—one son.  They all loved their baby brother and treated him like a doll or a “petit prince,” but, likewise, Demetri feared his sisters and respected them, and not just because he was the youngest.  Living with one French family hardly makes me and expert—but it was interesting because these girls really WERE without the hangups I think of as so typical for most women I know.  Instead of wondering how they looked from the outside they seemed perfectly content with how they felt inside—and as a result, their clothes fit better.


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