Every song of Paris is about her beauty. Every tourist talks about perfection in Parisian buildings, dogs and women. Every ex-pat turned Parisian has a story of suddenly being embarrassed at their own sloppiness in public. Before they arrived, sweatpants would have been a fine fashion choice, they sigh, eventually succumbing to the mandated splendor of Paris.
It’s more than scoffing at pjs in public, and it’s more than just a point of self-pride to look your best when you’re out. It feels like a common courtesy. If you aren’t looking your best, others will still see you. Even if no one is staring at you, it’s still your duty to dress the part of a Parisian. Paris is a stage, and the show is always on.
I’d never before considered sloppy dressing a guilty pleasure to be enjoyed, it was simply a personal right to be exercised. Losing that personal freedom isn’t all bad. I’ll now be relishing all the time I spend in my Spiderman t-shirt and ripped pj pants while lounging in the privacy of my own Parisian flat.
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