Notes on Happiness From Emily in Paris
If you haven’t watched Emily in Paris, I can’t recommend it. It’s delightfully trashy, aesthetically pleasing, totally unrealistic, and soothingly predictable.
Side note: I should be put on medication for loving Paris/The French. The first time I ever went to Paris, the moment the plane touched the ground 50 miles away from the actual city, I said out loud, “This is going to be my favorite place.” And it was. I spent the rest of the weekend in a croissant-induced haze. I was in college and probably as annoying as Emily was to the French.
As an adult visiting, I was told I was pretentious by our pretentious cooking instructor, Fred, and I never recovered from the honor. The only time I have ever ONCE thought about smoking (ugh, they look so cool I’m SORRY) is in Paris. I turned 30 in Paris and ate a raw burger patty because I thought it was so French. I found out I was pregnant with our daughter in Lyon (not the same time as the raw burger patty). I once read a memoir about a man attempting to learn French. Another time, I went to the UK and bought a book on the history of France, never having purchased a book on American history. I have recurring nightmares about being stuck in a French hotel but can’t get out to see the sights. I wake up in a cold sweat.
Again. Need medication.
But back to Emily in Paris. My favorite part about it is how it was actually received by real life French People (long story short: not well). I love that they were upset that Paris is portrayed as being clean, bright, and friendly. I will always love the irony of the French stereotype in being offended by French stereotypes.
In the opening episode, enthusiastic American Emily is thrown into a very French unenthusiastic office. Her excitement over business, lack of the language, and somehow jet lag, repels her co-workers. She shows up at 8 to the office, they show up at 10:30. She wants to talk shop at work events, they want to slink and drink and be French. They (barely) work to live, Emily lives to work. Emily swears she is happy working but yet is unhappy working with the not-working but working French. (Le sigh)
Feeling dejected, Emily settles down for her new rhythm of a two-hour lunch. A colleague wanders up and after a little dialogue about work and life balance asks, “Maybe you don’t know what it is to be happy.”
I think we do conflate work and progress with happiness. And sure, they do bring some level of pleasure to our lives, but if that is the sum of our lives, that creates such an empty life. And the opposite is true, if we only seek happiness, our lives will be empty and void of pleasure.
In my journey of recovery from perfectionism, overachieving, and subsequent burnout, I have realized that happiness is important. I wonder about Claude Monet painting such vibrant pieces as he dealt with depression, suicide, and loss. I’ve been to his gardens. It’s hard to believe a man so tormented created such beauty and a place of peace.
In my own seasons of pain, little moments of happiness were the lily pads I jumped to and fro in a dark and murky pond. I think of my friends and clients in dark seasons where they desperately need a small encouraging word, or a cup of coffee, or God forbid, a labubu. (Can someone tell me WHAT is going on??)
There is a legalistic version of Christine that exists in me and says, “The Bible doesn’t care about my happiness.”I have to squash her down a little for this. Later, I will challenge her to read Ecclesiastes. (She would also judge me for watching Emily in Paris.)
I asked a client earlier this week what she really wants as she faces a difficult Christmas, with difficult family, and their difficult expectations on her. And she said, “I just want to be happy.”
I want that for me. And I want that for you. I hope in this holiday season, in all the hard and difficult, may you find some happiness that can carry you through.
