Joie quotidienne

The fortune of having an elevator that takes you from inside your exquisite apartment directly into the garden is that, on a spring morning, you can come down in your dressing gown, enjoy breakfast in the sun, and then return home without anyone noticing – except for the caretaker who politely pretends not to see me. From the outside, it must be quite a funny sight: me wrapped in my white silk kimono, sitting on a rickety chair, sipping orange juice from a glass originally intended for champagne. I linger there for about fifteen minutes and giggle at the thought of waiters’ reactions when I request — where the setting allows — for my breakfast juice to be served in a champagne coupe. In fact, I tend to do it even when the circumstances don’t allow it; I adore feeling out of context, I find it disarming for whoever is listening at that moment. When I’m then asked for an explanation of such absurdity, I always reply in the same way: because I believe that a good point of view can make all the difference, just as I believe clichés are strongly underrated and that rituals should always be honored – that’s why. The rituel du toilettage is a true art and should be treated as such…

…Bzzzzzzt. Bip-bip-biiip. My alarm.
The grating sound, much far less poetic than a harp summoning me to consciousness, drags me abruptly out of my dream: me, draped in a white silk kimono, sipping fresh orange juice in a garden like a decadent noblewoman.

I smile it away, because my reality hardly needs to envy my most theatrical fantasies, then hit the snooze button. Jean, my Frenchman – before his eyes even catch the day and with the entitlement of Louis XIV summoning a courtier – demands his morning appraisal. Mila, originally and appropriately named Marie Antoinette, has meanwhile colonized the bed diagonally, like a seasoned, furry general laying claim to conquered territory. I am tolerated at the margins, a guest in my own kingdom, though I do my best to suffer it with honor-soaked grace.

In the bathroom mirror, I find myself suspiciously well-arranged. My hair still exhales a flowery garden from last night’s hair fragrance and my lips, thanks to a trustworthy night mask, are so decadently plump they seem to advertise sins I haven’t even had the energy to commit. These are the kind of details I secretly treasure: to accidentally seem like the sort of woman who requires an army of attendants, when in reality it’s just a blend of a few luscious products and a satisfying sex life.

My routine unfolds like a small, private opera: toner, serum, cream, each step a neatly choreographed aria of discipline. Between acts, I stage domestic benevolence by putting on Jean’s coffee. His mantra repeats in my mind while I load my red Moka pot: I’m French, I don’t do breakfast. Just coffee. “You ought to add a cigarette for a proper French breakfast, silly” I had replied back at the time.

From the shower, Jean switches on the radio. The news drips in, a litany of doom dressed in impeccable diction. I refuse it entry and mentally replace their solemnity with ridiculous morning jingles; the sort of tunes that pair well with skincare as I appear to have recently decided that moisturizer absorbs best when accompanied by lighthearted delusion.

Jean’s goodbye kiss is my cue to quicken the tempo. I rush-slip into my heeled boots: sensible enough for the city, pointed enough to make a door open a little faster. Plus, I also feel that funny surge of authority I already told you about in a past blog. I deftly spray my cocktail of trusted perfumes and grab my jewelry and silk scarf of the day. I glance in the hall mirror while closing up my earrings, with one foot in the boot wiggling into place, and give myself a private nod in the midst of that familiar chaos.

The bike awaits, somewhat picturesque; its wicker basket, we can consider borrowed, since it was stolen last spring and never returned. I mount with a neat little ritual with heels to pedal, scarf adjusted and one graceful shove before I catch speed. The park is a small theatre of ordinary things: joggers with impressive focus, dog-owners with less of it, sunlight rehearsing itself across the grass. My morning true‑crime podcast never claimed center stage in my commute, but I certainly gave it the role; noise‑cancelling engaged, every word treated like an essential briefing.

There are rules I follow more out of superstition than principle. One of these being that I never enter the office without a croissant that justifies the commute. The bakery obliges. The croissant is warm and forgiving as I expect everything to be in the morning. I take the ceremonial bite, slow enough to savor and quick enough to keep my schedule. It feels like an honest small victory and I treat it as such.
Only then do I head for the elevator and the office proper. Those thirty seconds of ascent are my briefing, a quick spec for the morning’s theatrics: who needs convincing, who needs soothing, who needs a hard no. Aligning egos, trimming scope, reviewing priorities. I practice the precise nod that ends an argument and the quiet pause that makes the next suggestion sound like the obvious one.

Sometimes lunch is chuckles and stories that don’t try to be important; others, it’s a boardroom in miniature, the perfect moment to plant an idea. After-work is for wine and the kind of gossip that leaves everyone better rather than shredded; civil, curious, occasionally useful. The evening unwinds with a gentle rightness, nothing ostentatious. A grateful smile settles in as I realize I picked up more than a few things today.

Home is exactly as promised: Marie Antoinette in her full, furry regalia, and Jean, who approaches evening meal planning with a seriousness that borders on adorable. He opts for ramen while I take a warm shower because sometimes the best civility is humble comfort. Jean studies the miso like it’s an important state matter and carefully picks a Disney cartoon because nostalgia is a generous balm.

I place my jewelry and scarf in order with the same sort of care I give a day that went mostly the way I hoped: deliberate, grateful, a little amused. With my robe on, I sit next to Jean, sip my broth, laugh at a line I half-remember, and feel the edges of ambition soften into contentment.
I turn to Jean and solemnly announce: “I shall enjoy my morning freshly-pressed juice in a champagne glass every morning!” He bursts into laughter and quickly presses an approving kiss on my lips. Some empires have been built on more negligible delusions.