FROM THE NORM TO THE MARGIN

Good done and not yet redone (in french "parfaite et toujours pas refaite")

It's a phrase I saw on a toiletry bag and I love it, just like the one that says "Don't touch my wrinkles, it took me a while to get them". It's not wrong.

As for "not redone", you can see that without worrying. As for perfect, well, I have a little doubt. I'll show you why.

I remember coming back from a summer holiday, at that time I have three children. I'm in my thirties. I feel great, refreshed by the sun and I congratulate myself on my organisation. I arrive at the paediatrician's with my changing bag, which is equipped like Mary Poppins' bag to deal with all the possible situations that can arise when you wait your turn for several hours with small children. And then, when I look down, I realise that I'm wearing slippers. That's great. Well, my little ones are impeccable, calm, I know I can go everywhere with them without worrying. When it was our turn, the paediatrician let us into his surgery. I ask him to excuse me for the way I am wearing my shoes. He tells me that it's not the most important thing, knowing that I had an appointment the day before, I'm just a day late... Yes, my life is littered with moments of embarrassment and great loneliness.

Another level: it happened during my student years. To get from the university to my room, I had to take the bus for an hour and walk for ten minutes. Sometimes I come home at night and girls have been assaulted in the neighbourhood. For my protection my father buys me a tear gas canister which I put at the bottom of my school bag. It was very easy to access in case of urgent need, given the mess inside. One afternoon on my way home I thought it would be more serious to put this self-defence object in the front pocket. Why did it suddenly occur to me? Don't ask me. I don't know myself. Anyway, I open the bag in question, rummage around and find the pepper spray. But I notice that the bitonio on it is dislocated. So, having the idea of the century, I decide to reposition the top nozzle. And there happens what should happen, the gas inside escapes into the bus. General panic: the other passengers and the driver get out of the bus while a voice shouts: "don't let the girl sitting at the back out, she's the culprit". I begin to understand what has happened. All the accusing eyes have turned to me. I feel bad, but I feel bad! The driver questions me very nervously and the dispatcher communicates with him through the bus radio. I understand that on top of all this there is a disruption on the whole line. My god I want to disappear. Finally, after airing up, with me still inside (I'm afraid of being lynched) we get back on the road and I get off at my stop, a big urge to cry about my stupidity and its consequences tugging at me. I have a two-hour break before I get back on the bus to go to class. I tell myself I'm not unlucky to run into the same driver and the same passengers right away. And since I'm a lucky girl, when the bus doors open I discover the stern face of my favourite driver. I swear to you. Karma of the worst kind.

I have dozens and dozens of them. When I tell you that I want to lead a quiet life in all discretion but I believe that destiny has other plans for me.

Thanks to all these moments I have learned to assume my "Gaston" side and to deal with it. I know I'm not the only one and I have a lot of sympathy for those who are affected. But that doesn't mean I feel more comfortable when it's my turn.

A banana peel in the street? Don't worry, it's for me. I'm speaking from experience (fortunately my second daughter caught me in time). A hole in the pavement at night? I don't even try to avoid it anymore (goodbye phone I liked you). Why refuse what you can't avoid.