Solo-Operator

My husband left France a few weeks ago to return to the states for work. His absence has resulted in a slew of unpleasant self-revelations regarding my ineptitude as a solo operator. I really thought, delusional though it now seems, that I was quite an independent, self-sufficient human being. While I love my husband beyond measure--and I also love the friendship, partnership, and co-conspiratorship our relationship provides--I had thought all of those things to simply be complementary bonuses to my already "whole" being.
Not so much. As it turns out, without him I can barely function as a member of society.

This year has been marked by such humbling revelations.

A small example: about two weeks after he left, I realized that the shower in our apartment was completely clogging up--to the point where I would be standing in a pool of non-draining water within just a couple of minutes of my washing-up process. The shower itself is about 2 feet by 2 feet which sounds claustrophobically small and ridiculous because it is both of those things. But there is evidently some construction/design clause for all bathrooms in France which erroneously was written under the belief that anyone who enters a shower stall is suddenly reduced to midget proportions, thus showers must all be smaller than the average high-school locker. Do the French think that water shrinks people? Not sure how it came to fruition, and even less clear on how most people are even ABLE to shower in those tiny lil' cabinets. I am not a large person. AND I do yoga. And it is darn difficult for me--my elbows are perpetually bruised. My poor brother, who has sort of ridiculously huge feet, really had a pickle of a time when he visited.

ANWAY...Given the minute size of the cubicle in which I clean myself, it takes less than five minutes for the entire basin to fill up to the brim. Since I do not want the bottom to overflow onto the floor and then possibly cause permanent water damage and/or leak into the apartment below, I shower in about three minutes. Now my elbows are really bruised: speed is the enemy of precision, people.

Not wanting to bother my husband with this household issue since he has plenty on his mind with his new work project, I initially asked a girlfriend of mine here what she thought I ought to do. She was wondefully supportive (as she always is), and told me that she too suffered from that very problem. So I asked her what she did and she suggested pouring a bunch of Drano (or the Frenchie equivalent) down the pipes and voila! problem solved. Or at least alleviated somewhat.

Or at least for about a week or two, at which point she just repeats the process again. And so on.

Before leaping into this plumbing venture, I told my husband about my "Mrs. Fix It" plans--just to get his stamp of approval. He paused for sort of a long time before saying: "Well, yes. You could do that," in a slow voice that suggested it was not at all what he would do. So I asked him what I should really do.

So he says: "Well, if you really want to fix the problem, then you have to pull the entire drain out. There are three parts, so just detach them from one another and de-clog and clean each part. It will be pretty gross though, so wear gloves. There are some under the sink in the kitchen."

We hung up and I went to work. I would be lying if I told you that while I was pulling on the plastic gloves I did not glance longingly at the Drano on the counter.

Well, oh my golly gee yuckaboo. That was the GRODIEST task ever. Whatever was clogged in those three pieces of drain was the narstiest gunk of all time. And here I thought I was quite a clean person. Add another item to the list of self-delusions!

Post yuck-bucket festival 2011, I called my husband back to tell him what transpired. At some point during my exciting play-by-play, I proclaimed something like: "Ugh!! Of course the plumbing issue happens AFTER you leave."

You know because I obviously would not have been the one dealing with it if he were here. What is wrong with me?

Realizing I sounded like a jerk, I tried self-correction of a more generous sort: "But at least YOU did not have to deal with it! Isn't it weird though, that the drain was fine all year and then as soon as you go--boom! It's all backed up?"

He paused for a long time. Too long of a time.

Then he goes, "Maggie, the shower has not backed up because I have been cleaning that shower drain every week for the past year."

WHATTTTTTTTT?

Why the poor guy has not filed for divorce is beyond me. If you saw the grodie gunktastic goo, you would also agree he had solid grounds for desertion.

Then it struck me that that there are so many ways he makes our life smoother. The internet acts up and I am utterly ineffectual. Trying to navigate trains/buses in  new territory takes me about six times as long as it takes him (and I make about 12 times more errors). The woman at the grocery store even asked where he was and since she likes no one on the planet, I have to imagine that her inquiry was less about her interest in his whereabouts and more based in her concern that I ought not to be let loose on the world without the supervision he provides. So I may "speak" French, but he is the really brains and brawn (and beauty for that matter) behind the operation that is our life in France. Or anywhere for that matter. Humbling indeed.

On this blog, I share so much about the trials and tribulations involved with living an "ex-pat" life in Paris. Imagine what sort of disasters would have befallen me without the help of a trusted and competent partner? I shudder to think. Though YOU may have been gypped; things could have gotten very entertaining for you the spectator. Everyone loves a train wreck, just look at how pop-tastic that Jersey Shore crew is.

But being independent is also a great thing. Or trying to be independent, maybe is a more accurate assessment of my current state. It is such an important part of life to learn how to depend on yourself, or to re-learn how to do so. And it is empowering in the same way that conquering a new language or a new culture can be. So, just like I am enjoying the social experiment that is life in France, I am also enjoying these less culturally-centric self-discoveries. While also wondering how I ever escaped being sent to remedial school.

Next time I'll tell you about how I ALMOST completely and utterly solved the problem of the shower forever. ALL BY MYSELF! It is an intriguing tale that involves naked French peeps. Now I have your attention, don't I?