Be A Matador — An Absurdly French Conversation
“Be a matador” he yelled as I whimpered pitifully in the middle of a six-lane highway, traffic whizzing by us on both sides.
Not waiting for a break in the traffic he had grabbed my hand and run us between cars out to a place I try REALLY hard to never find myself. The middle of a busy street.
I hate that shit.
I will NOT play chicken, I’ll wait, or walk to the corner crosswalk thank you very much.
But to my French husband jaywalking on a busy boulevard is in his blood, a skill learned as a youth on the impossibly dangerous streets of Paris.
It is not a chicken sport. It is a bullfight. And he/we were Matadors.
Gulp.
Me: (leaning in, yelling above the noise of the cars) Wha…what? Did you say a matador?
Husband: Yes! Stand still! Don’t let the cars smell your fear.
Me: (Squeezing his hand like a vice grip, hoping to illicit pain) Are you crazy? What are you talking about?
Husband: (Yelling back at me through a smirk) Listen to me! All the greatest Matadors are French!
Me: You’re kidding me right? They are NOT French, they’re Spanish!
Did you see what he did there? He took my mind off of my predicament, knowing I would argue with him. Well played husband, well played.
Husband: I’m telling you, they’re French! They’re called Coreadors.
I was laughing nervously. Mostly at the absurdity of the conversation. I’m sure I appeared squirmy, uncomfortable and maybe a little hysterical. That comes from knowing that you’re probably going to end up as a splat on the windshield of a Prius.
Me: Shut. Up! They are NOT!
Husband: (Leaning in, yelling above traffic) Or Toreadors. Those are the guys on horseback.
Me: (Feeling queasy. close enough to death to relate to the bull) Uhhh! Stop! Bullfighting is barbaric! The French don’t have bullfighting! They’re WAY too civilized for that!
Husband: (Amused by my argument) That’s what YOU think!
By the way, can you believe we were still standing in the middle of a busy street? Me either, but we were!
Me: (Wishing I’d ordered the french toast as my last meal) Egads. Bullfighting. Brutal. Whoever thought that was a good idea?
Husband: The Romans.
Me: Figures.
With that, the last car hurtled past us and he yanked my hand and ran me to the safety of the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. We were both laughing, not at bullfighting because it’s a horrible practice*—but at the absurdity of our conversation.
Husband: God, you can be such a baby!
Me: God, you’re weird! And damn, the Romans were assholes!
Some story on the radio in the car changed the subject, but I had to share this.
Words from a French wise guy I know—When you’re in the middle of chaos—stand still—be a matador.
Carry on,
xox
*Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I am in no way condoning bullfighting and no bulls were killed in the telling of this story.
