Spring is in full swing here in France. Four months of dark, foreboding skies filled with rain, sleet and snow have been taken over by warm, and sun filled blue skies. The French anticipated this season eagerly a few weeks before it actually began. Just as the temperature began to warm a slight amount, though the sky remained gray and bleak, I noticed a slight cheerfulness going around. The dress began to change. The thick, long, black coats were changed into lighter, sportier jackets. Scarves began to come down from nose level, and once in awhile you could catch sign of a bare leg. It was all as if the people knew spring was finally arriving and were ready to shed the oppressiveness of the long, cold winter.
Now that spring has truly arrived the change is more dramatic. Bare flesh is everywhere. The lovely French maidens have brought out their sexy wear. Their tops are tight and cut for maximum flesh and curves. All blouses seem to be sleeveless and low cut to show the most bountiful décolletage imaginable. What cloth there is fits firmly around the bosom and cannot seem to be stretched to cover the entire naval. Not to be outdone, the pants fit so low on their torsos that they expose the curvature of their hips and expose their delectable, lacy panties. The pants also remain so tight as to determine each girls personal likes, dislikes, and religion.
That’s if they wear pants, normally these lovelies prefer to wear a wide variety of skirts. Long skirts, short skirts, tight skirts, loose skirts, skirts of all colors and shapes now wander the streets flirting with whoever will watch. There are long skirts with slits up to places my mother warned me about. They have tight denim skirts that might as well not exist they are so short. Or they saunter about in short loose numbers that fly high above their navels whenever the tiniest breeze flutters about.
The men, not wanting to be left out have also deck themselves in the skimpiest of fashions. The light button-up shirts are buttoned down to expose the hairiest of chests. Or if their pectorals are peaking, they don skin tight pastel colored t-shirts to give everyone the best view of their long worked after, bulging muscles. Their pants are, of course, skin tight leaving nothing to the imagination. Unless of course they are at the park, then the preferable attire is either the skimpiest of jogging shorts, declaring their thighs to the world and barely covering what god never meant to see the light of day, or the mandatory Speedos.
Yes, gone are the days when the streets were filled with walking masses of bulky clothes. No longer are the massive coats covering every curve from neck to kneecap. Winter scarves have left the remaining neckline and facial features below the nose. Where once all that was visible were blacks of their eyes, the French have come out, so to speak, and announced their glorious bodies to the world.
It is a sultry, sweaty, flesh filled landscape these days. It is quite a change, and frankly, not one I’m sure we can all take. The American stereotype of French people is that they are curt, rude, and snobbish. Perhaps it is not a cultural anomaly, or a hatred of all things American, but rather something more simply. Perhaps they are simply sexually frustrated and must take it out on someone.