Femme de Luxe

A number of years ago a dear friend of mine called me a “Femme de Luxe”.  I was outraged.  What?!  I’m just a simple Greek girl from the village! ME a Femme de Luxe ?!  Images conjured in my head of some brassy highlighted over botoxed animal print wearing socialite getting manicures while being fed peeled grapes by a 6-pack ab'd dreamboat.  This is not me! How in the world could he think this was me?!

I’m tough!  I don’t need constant attention and pampering!  I scrub my floors on my hands & knees! If you dropped me in the wilderness with an axe and compass I could probably make it back to civilization!  Come on – a Femme de Luxe?!

But then, reality set in.  I don’t like to be tough. I don’t really need constant attention, but some is nice.  And I do like being pampered, if that means spaing (yes, spaing is a verb).  Sure, I can scrub and clean just obsessively enough to make my Greek mom proud, but I don’t really like to.  And truly, if I was dropped in the wilderness with an axe and compass it would only be my angered determination to give the person responsible a severe tongue lashing (so much more effective than a punch in the face) that would guide me back to civilization.

So, maybe yes, I am a Femme de Luxe.  I highlight my hair (brown just got a bit too boring), get regular massages (because in place of shoulders I have bricks) and prefer to wear heels & skirts (am short, don’t like pants).  If you catch me wearing Birkenstocks, feel free to shoot as I’ve obviously been evil-cloned.  I can acknowledge that camping (or similar) can be fun, but I really, really don’t like bugs.   Beer isn’t really my thing and neither is cold pizza (unless I had way too much gross beer the night before).   I guess it’s time for an image adjustment.

No Brass. No Botox.  No Animal Prints.  I’ll take the manicures and ab’d dreamboat, but I can eat my grapes with the peel, thank you very much. 

No apologies: I’m a Femme de Luxe … Re-Dux. 

Thanks Matthew. :)