If You Liked It Then You Should Have...

...Put A Ring On It.

Everyone in America is getting married. My sister is engaged. My cousin is engaged. In contrast, it seems as though no one in France has gotten married in decades. This place is full of those conjoined mammals which we like terming “couples.” First of all, the word ‘couple’ sounds like a coffee mug which morphed into a neo-siamese conjoined mug in the kiln. Creepy kiln mutant. These couples of whom we speak litter the streets of Paris. They are clutching each other in parks, grasping each other at the crosswalk, licking each other while waiting for the metro (I don’t want to talk about it). To my sheer delight, I recently learned that it is ILLEGAL, I repeat, illegal, to kiss on/in the French railway system. I will attempt my first citizen’s arrest as soon as physically possible. Results to follow. 

The other day, I rolled my eyes at a really cute couple. I think the man saw me. Awkward. If it happens again, I will try to play it off by pretending I got dust in my eye. Or a wooden plank. I proceeded to roll my eyes at two more couples that day. I don’t know what got into me. I must clarify. I’m not bitter. I love homo sapiens who make a pastime out of inhaling each other’s natural musks. It is a valiant practice. I condone it whole-heartedly. The root of my discontent in these aforesaid situations is, in fact, nudity. No, these people were not hand-holding in their skivvies on their way to work. Yet they were naked. To be precise, their fingers were naked. None (okay, 2%) of these couples are married. I have made a practice of scanning through the metro at the hands of the couples in my line of sight. So few of them have married fingers. This is the occurrence on the streets as well. There is a wonderful division of domestic roles between parents here in Paris, so every time I see a man holding a baby, I check his finger. Almost always empty. Same thing with the women and their strollers. Full stroller. Empty hand. The two times I have seen super adorable couples together with rings on their hands, and thought to myself “now aren’t they just perfect,” I inclined my ear towards them and heard the inevitable. The were speaking Spanish. More proof of my assumption about the marriage-as-an-antiquated-traditional-and-religious-institution-phobic French. I do work for five families in the city (I’m a child-care professional now), and when picking one of my kids up from her bilingual school, I see a wealth of gold and diamonds. American adults with rings. Big surprise. They’re foreign here in France. I find it frustrating that people here can commit to a bakery, an open air market, a brand of chocolate, a favorite bottle of wine, a florist, and a bookshop, but cannot sign a piece of paper that says they will continue to live with the person they love and already live with. Sub-letters do it every day. It’s not that difficult. If you want to grab handfuls of other people’s bodies in public places, please put a ring on it. That’s all.