Saturday, April 28, 2007
I hate the photo on my carte de sejour. My head is the shape of a football. Nearly every time I open my wallet, I gasp in terror as if it's the first time I've seen the image, an image so horrific that my eyes have yet to become desensitized.
Fred tries to comfort me by asking me how many times I've actually had to show the card in the past year. Twice. Once to our apartment rental agent, and once to the ticket verifier on the TGV. Both turned to stone.
Fred tells me to look on the bright side. In 9 more years I can have a new photo taken, and I can spend the time in between practicing my smile. This comes as little consolation. After living in France 10 years it’s not likely that I’ll have any teeth left.