Appalachia Year

I feel like an insipid, idiot girl-droid every time I see that commercial for Dior's fragrance Cherie. I get intoxicated by the Brigitte Bardot clone flitting around Paris in a party dress, adorably pointing out her frosted prize at a pâtisserie, coyly running through the Jardin du Luxembourg, riding her cruiser bike while the wind whips through her blonde mod coif. Finally, she flops on a bed, laughing. How exhausting it is to be idly cute all day! Whenever I watch it I sink into the couch, shielding my eyes from the glowing television. "Nick! Change the channel! It's working! I want to smell like a carefree Parisian model in the 60s."

When I was a French major, I was irritated by the scores of daffy female classmates seduced by the whole "All things French are beautiful and romantic" idea and wanted to do Powerpoint presentations on Coco Chanel and the Louvre but recoiled when it was time to talk about the horrors of colonialism and the problematic nature of French nationalism. How unpleasant! Back to Hermès scarves and making out under the Eiffel tower on New Year's Eve.

I looked up the commercial on Youtube and I guess it's directed by Sofia Coppola. Ha! I may be an airhead, but I'm a sort-of-erudite airhead.

And at the pâtisserie, I always pick the tarte aux framboises.