You know, when I think about France, sometimes the word “obsessive” pops into my head. Not in a mean way, necessarily. But like, they’ve got their rules for cheese, for wine, for how to cut your bread, probably. Get it wrong, and it’s like you’ve committed a crime. Everything’s gotta be just so.
And it’s funny, because some folks might say I get a bit like that myself. Once I latch onto something, I can really go down the rabbit hole. Deep. Too deep, maybe my wife would say.
So, this one time…
This whole “obsessive” streak, it really came to a head a few years back. It wasn’t in France, but it was all about France. I got it in my head that I was going to learn French. And not just your tourist phrasebook stuff. Oh no. I mean, I wanted to speak it. Like, really hold a conversation, understand the jokes, the whole shebang.
So, I dived in. Headfirst. Downloaded all the apps, bought a pile of books that could prop open a bank vault. My desk disappeared under flashcards. Sticky notes with verb conjugations covered the fridge, the bathroom mirror, everywhere. I’d be muttering “je suis, tu es, il est” in my sleep. My dog started looking at me funny.
And the pronunciation! Oh boy.
- That French ‘r’? Sounded like I was gargling gravel for weeks.
- Those nasal vowels? Made me sound like I had a permanent, very annoying cold.
- Hours. I spent actual hours listening to recordings, contorting my face, trying to mimic them. My neighbors probably thought I was practicing some weird new cult chanting or something. Seriously.
It wasn’t just the language either. Oh no, that would be too simple. I started planning THE trip. The ultimate French experience, you see. I had spreadsheets. Color-coded. With tabs for obscure cafes, museums I’d never heard of before, specific local markets I absolutely had to visit, even particular park benches I wanted to sit on. It was a masterpiece of overthinking, honestly. Pure, unadulterated obsession.
And then, wham. The trip got canned. Work crisis. Big project blew up, all hands on deck, you know the drill. No France. Just like that. All those late nights, all that painstaking, ridiculously detailed planning, all those mangled French vowels… poof. Gone. For nothing, it felt like. Absolutely nothing.
I was pretty bummed, I tell ya. Felt like a total idiot, wasting all that time and energy. My wife, bless her, tried to be supportive, but I could see that tiny “I told you so, you obsessive nut” glint in her eye. “Maybe dial it back next time, eh?” she’d say, all gentle-like. Yeah, right.
But here’s the kicker…
Months go by. I’d pretty much put my brief, intense love affair with the French language on a dusty shelf in my brain. The flashcards were definitely gathering dust in a box somewhere. Then, out of the blue, a new client project lands on my team’s lap at work. Big one. Potentially lucrative. And guess what? The main contacts were from a small, but important, outfit in Montreal. French-speaking, mostly. Very French-speaking.
Suddenly, everyone’s looking around the room. You could cut the tension with a knife. Panic stations. Who can talk to these guys beyond “bonjour”? And there I am, slowly, hesitantly, raising my hand. My French was rusty, sure. My accent probably still sounded like a confused tourist who’d wandered off a bus. But I could understand them. I could string sentences together. I could get the gist, crack a joke (a bad one, probably), and build a rapport.
It was a weird feeling. That “useless” obsession, the one that led to a cancelled trip and a lot of quiet eye-rolling from my better half? It actually became super valuable. We landed that client, and a big part of it was down to just being able to communicate, even imperfectly, on their terms. My boss was gobsmacked.
So, yeah. Obsession. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Sometimes it takes you on a wild goose chase that ends in a frustrating dead end. Other times, it hands you a totally unexpected key when you least expect it. I still haven’t made it to France, by the way. Life, eh? But when I do, maybe I won’t plan every single second. Or maybe I will. Who knows? Old habits die hard, right?
