Quel Dommage

I had my first class at the Adult Education Center tonight.
Since the course is a basic 100-level class, I figured the students would be completely new to the language like myself, whose knowledge of French is comprised of "thank you" and "what a shame".

The instructor walked in and began to speak rapidly in French. I looked around the room, and to my dismay, all of the students seemed to understand what she was saying. They were laughing in unison at what I assume were jokes, while I sat there looking like the special needs kid whose Rainbow Bright mittens are pinned to her jacket year-round. I felt like I was watching an episode of Saturday Night Live, staring at the screen, hearing the laughter of the audience, but finding nothing funny about it.

While the teacher handed out some worksheets, she asked all eight students to go around the room, introduce ourselves, and talk a little bit about what brought us to the class.

A six-foot tall, gorgeous blonde answered first, "I model in Paris a few times a year so I could use French for that...oh and I have a French boyfriend." A peppy bald guy chimed in excitedly, "Me toooooo!".

The only other male in the class sat up in his chair, puffing his chest out proudly, and said, "Well as long as we're talking about significant others, I'm taking this class since my girlfriend went to school in France!"

I began to wonder if I had accidentally sat down in the wrong classroom. Maybe this was one of those romantic coupley courses that have ridiculous titles like "Pizza My Heart: Learn Italian!" or "A Wok To Remember: Chinese Love Lessons."

Two more students admitted to learning French for a boyfriend. I began to feel like the donut in the center of one big circle jerk for people with French-speaking significant others.

Finally, the brunette next to me shared her story, "Well, I work at a scientific research lab and the Director just came from France, so most of the staff speaks French." A wave of relief washed over me. I'm not the outcast for once, I thought to myself. I began to relax until she continued to speak..."And now that I'm dating the Director, it will come in handy to be fluent."

I sighed, feeling the impending doom of having to speak next. And what would I say, "I'm trying to spice up my love life and my right hand speaks English, but my crotch is a Francophile" or how about, "Two words, people, Celine Dion!"

Thankfully, before I could answer, the instructor called on me to read the first sentence on the worksheet aloud:

"Comment allez-vous?"

I stumbled through the sentence, massacring the pretty words as though my pronunciation was a giant pair of combat boots, stomping and squishing the letters until nothing was left but slime and guts. The teacher looked at me with the abject horror normally reserved for mass murderers or vegans.

Why couldn't this be like the movies where the instructor is some charming French gent who initially finds my buffoonish ways repellent, then grows to adore me through a sequence of whimsical events and soundtrack by Mew?

Fact is, the teacher is a woman who wears the sensible shoes of a janitor, and shares the same tone of voice and sexual predilection as Ellen DeGeneres. The class may be filled with beaus and better halves who are speaking the international language of love, but if they break up, French will be a bitter language to speak and to hear, and boy would that be painful.

I may not be fluent yet, but my right hand and I have a good thing going.