Words by Alexia Cicard
Dispatches from our Parisian correspondent on the front lines of champagne socialism, A lesson in Parisian disdain.
So, we’ll start by discussing my evening, because ‘he’ said it would be interesting (watch the plot twist) But let’s not digress so early. The subject is how I spent 2 hours and 30 minutes trying to get dressed for tonight Halloween party, even though, I know, I won’t go.
Am I invited? Yes. Am I physically incapable? No, I’m not.
It’s just that, as the fateful date approaches (having spent near 30years on this damn planet) I’ve figured out what I like and what I don’t. Which is pretentious to say for someone who changed their sofa four times in the last two years. The fact is; now I know that I don’t enjoy going out when we’re supposed to. When we have to.
Just like I dislike Saturday nights out, New Year’s Eve, birthday parties and yes…the now infamous Halloween party. And if I have to explain (no, you don’t), the main reason for being such a maverick is that I’ve realized that during these times, people tend to go out because they have to. Because they’re not working the next day. Because it’s the last day of the year or because of other insane reasons I’m too busy to mention.
So, because I genuinely don’t want to go to the party where I previously responded with a enthusiastic ‘yaay, so cool, see you there’. I didn’t buy or even think about a costume. Obviously, I’m not going to put effort, money or energy into a costume for a party that I don’t want to attend. So far so good.
But because I’m -almost- and not thirty. The fact is : We’re in for another Halloween party where I’m anticipating my last-minute fomo anxiety.
Everything will begin at 8:30 when my friends will start messaging me some «on my wayyy. » « See you thereee ».I will resist for 30 minutes, which is just enough time to digest the comfort food I prepared for myself.
But once I’ll have digested the food, maybe a touch of wine and my body will have the associated energy peak. Once I’ll have scrolled through Instagram and its party stories. And once I’ll have the moment of some internal introspection in my pyjamas, with my cat purring on my stomach, I’ll think “fuck that I’m not even 30” So 15 minutes before the party’s scheduled start time. I’ll have a huge urge to go. What a twist of events.
And so now, I inevitably need a costume.
And yes ! You follow ! That’s the exact one the costume I’ve been working on all afternoon knowing myself. Thanks experience du vie. At this point in time, you’ll want to be calling my mother to check things are ok don’t you? It’s not over. Reread the title.
So I’m supposed to have the costume, right? But here’s another twist: at this stage, I’ll hate it. I’ll hate it because I’ll have put it together this afternoon with my strong inner voice of ‘’I’m not going, fuck this party’
I’ll hate the exact costume that took me 2 hours and 30 minutes to make. That one for which I searched through every damn drawer for my wig, find the wig, washed the wig, gave the wig a haircut, and styled the putain de wig de merde. I even ironed a white shirt and black pants to be ‘Mia Wallace’ and look cool but effortless so I’m sure that everyone there will know I didn’t make a single effort to be at this putain de party de merde that I don’t want to attend. Bref.
(I add « bref » and « putain de merde » at your vocabulary because you need it. I need it.)
Actually, I’m going to digress for a moment and give you a tips for your future Parisian nights. And teach you this: Wanting to appear undressed and effortless is a sign of the Parisians disdain. Not from my madness. Here, you undress to look too cool for any host’s party.
So now it’s 10 PM, I’ll hate my costume, I’ll have emptied my wardrobe on the floor to find another. I’ll have scoured every ‘last minute non-basic Halloween costume’ and ‘Halloween costume with what you already have’ video on TikTok. And on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I’ll remove my black lipstick, send ‘I won’t make it, have fun !’ to my friends, and go straight to bed.
So, you know what? I can’t wait for those unapologetic post 30 years of age pyjama parties. Where we’ve reached that point of clarity and admit that Plan B of starting a cat farm in Picardie isn’t that far off and actually quite charming.
Bring it on.
Wish you a less terrifying night than mine. Xx