Sheep

Once, years ago, when I came to France with my rollerblades, I was the only one who had them. People looked on and stared rudely, part surprise, part shock at the sight of someone doing something different. The next time I came, everyone had rollerblades. The children, the angsty teens, even some brave older people, being pulled along by their tiny dogettes.

Right now, the craze is razor scooters. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, here in Paris has one. Business men, every child, even some brave older people, being pulled along by their dogettes.

You see, the French seem to love their crazes. Even here in Paris, where there is mix of cultures and ways of being, almost everyone jumps on the bandwagon. Most people here (and it's everywhere, I suppose, not just France) are scared shitless of not fitting in. Of being different. The man from whom I'm renting a room is very anal. Everything has to be clean, but not simply clean. It all needs to be cleaned in a certain way, at a certain time. I got a big dose of the French fitting in syndrome when he explained that he was a maniac for cleaning. He has good English and immediately panicked (I'm not exaggerating, he started fidgeting about and sweating) when he thought I might understand maniac in its English connotation rather than the French. Maniac in French has no mental illness connotations, shall we say. He was panicking that I might think him somewhat crazy.

It may be a throwback to a time when people were locked up for being different, slightly off. So now, when there is a new fad, women, men, children everywhere look out their windows and see it and immediately rush out to join in.

It's how the dogette fetish started, I'm sure. It became fashionable to have a tiny dog, now every one and their dog has a tiny dog. Barely attached to a lead, running in and out of traffic, the women secretly hoping a car will hit it and she can stop caring for this fucking dog that she hates but only keeps because everyone else has one. But the cars never do hit them.

I think a lot of people feel the same way about their children, as they seem more than content to constantly put their kids in harm's way. They run out into traffic and the parents don't even bat an eyelid. They don't call them back and they don't tell them off for being reckless. In fact, they have a gleam in their eye that suggests hope. Hope that a car will hit them and they can stop caring for these fucking children that they hate but only produced as everyone else did. But the cars never do hit them.

I've been trying to escape this sheep flocking behaviour for most of my adult life. I don't want a normal career. I don't want a wife, two kids, a cat, a dog, a large house in the suburbs, two garages, two cars and a neat lawn. I don't care if people think I'm crazy. The "dream" doesn't interest me. I've left a country that has this dream firmly branded into its soul. I've arrived in a country that has chased this dream for thousands of years.

I must be crazy.