The title says, “Sorry, I’m American” en Francais. Yes, today I apologized for being American, haha! Two things that scare me are the French language and the approaching Quebec winter. This afternoon, they joined forces and came to my home.
Earlier today, I was surprised to hear the doorbell ring. I opened the door to see a gentleman, his wife, and his daughter on my front porch. He began speaking to me, and I quickly told him in French, “Excuse me, but I don’t understand. I don’t speak French. Sorry! I’m American. My husband is in the Air Force.”
After a little while of struggling to communicate, I ran inside and got my phone. I handed it to him with google translator (that raper of languages!) open in the window. He typed in French, and I read the word, “Plowing.” Apparently he offers snow plow service, and he was able to give me his contact information so that my husband can call him later for an estimate.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it many times over. It’s very, very strange how quickly the mind can adapt, how fast the impossible or terrifying becomes the mundane and ordinary. Just a few short weeks ago, I would have reacted to a group of Francophone strangers on my front porch with anxiety and severe discomfort. Now, however, there was no anxiety or discomfort. So what, I don’t speak the language? I’m working on it. So what, a conversation that should have taken 2 minutes took more like 10? I’ve got time.
I’m not actually sorry that I’m American. I’m not sorry about much, in fact. I’m having a pretty intense love affair with my life right now. It’s a Sunday, and I’ve paid the cardio I owe for the day. My hamstrings finally almost don’t hurt. I’ve skyped with a friend and scrambled some eggs, and I have a lovely little steak thawed for dinner (and I paid less than $2 for it!). I have a bottle of red to go with the steak, and a season of The Office to watch. My home is comfortable, my meatsuit is fitting better and better, and I have so much love inside of me that it feels like I’m going to explode. Best of all, time is moving again.
After the husband left for Cornwall, time just sort of shat its pants and then sat down in the mess it had made. It just sat there, reeking, on the floor, refusing to get up and move. The days dragged by, and a week seemed like a month. This isn’t just my perception. My closest friend here noticed the same phenomenon. And she has noticed, like I have, that time seems to have picked itself up, showered off the mess, and started marching along again as it’s supposed to. In fact, it seems to have actually started jogging a bit. For me, a huge part of it is having future plans that excite me greatly. I have no plans tomorrow, but I have a girls’ night planned on Tuesday, then Wednesday I have to pack and be ready to leave. THURSDAY I head to Cornwall to see my favourite human. That Saturday, we’ll spend the night in Montreal after attending the Cavalry Ball with my in-laws. Around the time I take off my ball gown, one of my dearest forever friends will be getting on a bus in New York. Sunday morning, he’ll arrive in Montreal, and we’ll drive back to the Saguenay together. He’ll stay with me for over two weeks! We’ll hike and rent a paddle boat, I’ll cook for two again, and we’ll dance like idiots in the kitchen. And when I take him back to Montreal, I’ll see mon mari again and get to do Thanksgiving with my “Canadian family.”
Life is good, indeed! I’ve got the squeeeees so badly that I’m starting to annoy myself. Barring any problems with Ginny (my Ford Es-cop-ay), the next month is going to be awesome! I have to say that. I’m getting used to this military spouse thing. I am beginning to always say to myself, “IF this happens,” or, “Assuming all goes well,” or, “If things work out according to my plans, knock on wood…” It sounds a little depressing or pessimistic, but it’s actually comforting to me. Remembering that I can’t know things will be okay makes me appreciate it even more when things ARE okay.