French Women Don't Get Fort?

I was in the bathroom today. Quite a bit, actually. And once or twice I was thinking how tired I am of spending 50-60% of my time there. And then I was feeling guilty because I actually can have babies, and it's probably insensitive that I complain when I know so many people cannot have babies. But then I thought that even those women would complain about all the crap our bodies have to tolerate once we are pregnant, and I shouldn't feel so bad about being a whiner. What I mean is, though I am very tired of the aches and pains, the constant peeing and heartburn, the not sleeping, the hormonal mood swings, etc. . . . I am also very grateful that I have a healthy and strong body that can and will cooperate in bringing life into this world. (All this I'm thinking in the bathroom.) Then I started thinking about my body (because let's not be gracious/grateful for too long) and thinking about how I should have been taking better care of it all these years so I haven't left myself with so much work to do in order for it to be really healthy and strong. And that reminded me of a funny moment I shared with my friend Margaret and some strange French men several years ago. So, I've now told you some of my many bathroom ponderings (come on, you know you do your best thinking in there) to tell you this story.

A little background:

This was about 10 years ago, give or take a year or 2. Margaret and I were not especially good friends at the time. We each held some misconceptions about each other. Frankly, I thought she was cold and snotty, and she thought I was a pot smoker. Go figure. Anyway, we were not yet friends, but we certainly were friendly to each other because we had so many academic things in common; thus a forced acquaintanceship existed between us. Anyway, we ended up on a trip to Paris together for 2 weeks. I learned that she was not what I thought she was, and she was totally confused as to why a girl who smoked pot wouldn't accept a glass of wine at dinner the first night we were there. Needless to say, we became friends, and now we laugh about all of that.

One night toward the end of our trip, we were hanging around down by the cathedral Notre Dame and watching the bateaux mouches carry their mostly American clientele up and down the river Seine. By this time, though we had had an awesome time in France, some of the charm had worn off. We had begun to daydream about ordering drinks that came with ice, American food (whatever that is), and speaking English without feeling rude. (All marginally educated French people speak English, but it's rude to assume that's what they'd like to speak to you, so you have to first speak French until they hopefully decide to take pity on you.) So, this one night we were watching the river boats and behaving like total Americans, and we didn't care that we weren't looking so cool anymore. These French guys must have found us campy or something, because they came over to hang out and speak English with us. For some reason, we started to talk about differences between Americans and French people. Trivial things, mostly, but then one of them said, "I like you because you are fort." Huh? The remark was directed at both Margaret and me, and something was obviously lost in translation. See, in French, "fort" means "strong." What could this guy possibly know about how strong we were? I suspected we were headed down a dangerous road, but I couldn't help myself and asked him what he meant anyway. "You are fort," he repeated, this time looking us both up and down as if to indicate that our bodies would serve to communicate what he couldn't think to say in English. Well, you know me. The picture of subtelty. "Do you mean fat?" I asked him. He must have recognized my F word, and his eyes got wide. "Fort," he says again, this time adding, "You play many sports." I looked at Margaret, and she at me. Negative. Nope. No sports here. Sorry, French guy. I think you really meant fat, and I'm gonna bust you on it right here in your city, by your river, and your cathedral, and in my language! Betcha didn't think I would, huh? So, very directly, I let him know that neither Margaret nor I play any type of sports, that we're big because we're just plain old American fatties, and in America it's considered rude to point that out to someone, especially a woman! Off he went fairly quickly after that, and we've had lots of laughs over it in the years since. Margaret has been one of my bestest friends in the world, and to some degree we have our own language. For us, "strong" is a euphemism for "fat," and now you know that if you hear us remark about someone's playing many sports, we're probably just calling him/her fat. Sadly, Margaret is no longer fat, and I'm fatter. Not fair. It only works because we live so far apart and seldom see each other. I chose to still think of her as a fattie, and I make her eat terribly when she comes to visit. Nothing like a good friend!