My husband is in love with the French teen idol Alizée. He’s almost forty. I can’t stand the scene of my half bald guy sitting in front of the computer drooling at the high school girl shaking her firm legs and sending glossy pink kisses.
“Aren’t you a bit too old for this?” He is playing for the twentieth time that song where she repeats “j’ai pas vingt ans (I’m not twenty yet)”.
“Who said a mature and healthy man can’t like someone young, beautiful and sexy?”
Are you calling me old, ugly, and frigid? I have a miniscule explosion somewhere in the back of my skull. Instead of saying it out loud I shield my self-pity with a busy and pissed-off turn-around.
After Michael went to bed I quietly put my earplugs on and search for Alizée’s music videos on Youtube, creepy as a jealous wife can be. The opening scene of her debut song “Moi... Lolita” fuels a bit more my flame of hatred. What do you mean “c’est pas ma faute (it’s not my fault)” if you’re openly seducing married men and asking them for money? Although with my rusty French I couldn’t figure out what she was singing most of the time, from her simple straight haircut, her apparently makeup-free tender face, her super short skirt and the way she shakes her hips, I got the idea that Alizée, the French Lolita is specialised in seducing men of an older generation than herself. I find my proof. Then I go on and check out the English translations of the lyrics of her songs. Now my anger has entered a different territory.
“Jul, are you coming?” Michael’s almost-guilty voice from the bedroom.
“Just a sec.”
I brush my teeth then go to my side of the bed and coldly lay there.
“But everyone has something to like. He’s not going out with any woman.” I hear the Angel-me trying to talk me off the fight.
Very soon I hear Michael’s snores. I slowly fall asleep with a confused mixture of feelings.
I continue to protest by staying on my side of the bed and pretending to be sleepy every night. It turns out to be a punishment for myself as well as for him.
One week after, I ask myself: “Am I forcing him to get away from me?” But I just can’t forgive him, replaying videos of “Moi...Lolita” in my mind.
Our cold war gets into an impasse, until I stumble upon a half naked picture of Justin Bieber on a women’s magazine.
In less than one month I have all his CD albums. Half a dozen of his posters. I love his smile. I love his shoulders. I love the way he bites his lower lips while squeezing his beautiful eyes. I don’t remember when was the last time I felt so carefree. As he sings in one of his songs, “as long as you love me / we could be starving / we could be homeless / we could be broke”. Love is so simple. We just need to let ourselves shower in the warm bliss that comes so naturally. He brings me back to my adolescent self - when life was fresh and all I wanted to do was be my true self, love what I love, and forget about everything else.
Armed with my “Biebsession” I am completely immune to any Lolita. In fact I am not even aware of Michael’s presence that much.
Michael is surprisingly indifferent about my new passion. At least he appears to be. Then one day he comes home with a side-swept haircut with gelled-up bands, which remotely resembles...
I burst into laughers, then jump on him and kiss my man hard and long.
(End)
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