LIVING IN FRANCE

Walking On Eggshells or Marcher Sur Des Oeufs -English Or French, It Involves Treading Very, Very Carefully

Literally or figuratively, egg shells are easily crushed

I’ve never been a domestic goddess — anyone who knows me would fall on the floor laughing at reading this. Careful though if it’s my floor you’re falling on, I haven’t checked the kitchen yet this morning, but it wouldn’t be surprising if some pieces of shell from my breakfast egg missed the poubelle. . .

That’s trash can in English, but I like the French word — not exactly an oxymoron, but a sort of Franco/Anglaise contradiction. . . poo (stinks) and belle(beautiful)

But, back to the topic. Depending on your degree of domestic godliness, feeling the crunch of eggshells underfoot might be annoying, but I’d take it any day over walking on the metaphorical kind.

You know how it goes. There’s something — a subject, a name, a question — that in the interests of domestic, familial or any other kind of harmony must never, ever be mentioned.

Have you ever heard back from that guy — what was his name — who dumped you?

It took you how long to write that book? And you made how much?

Have you . . . gained weight?

Politics are in a special eggshell-avoiding category of their own. Political beliefs go deep. . . far deeper than who you voted for. So in the interests of domestic harmony, I’d suggest that unless you both have similar leanings and convictions, avoid politics entirely.

Especially if you live in the same house.

But what happens when the metaphorical eggshells are so deeply ground into the metaphorical carpet (sorry, just indulge me) that they’re impossible to avoid?

What if every word, every topic, tone of voice — every-everything is a potential landmine?

That thought occurred to me this morning as I read a story by Susan SL titled Walking on Eggshells.

She writes:

What must it be like to be my husband in these days? I feel a titch bad for him.

She wrote this after the overturn of Roe v Wade when “steam started coming out of my ears.”

Mine too, but this is not about that decision or anything else about US politics — that topic causes my ears to steam too. This is about navigating eggshells. About the stress and anxiety created when you feel the crunch of shells underfoot and, whoops, you’ve set off a landmine.

Triggered an explosion.

I probably should have called this story, “How Not To Mix Metaphors.”

It’s scary though, all the eggshell walking and landmine avoidance.

My mother, widowed when my sister and I were small children, seldom showed her anger or swore, but occasionally erupted into terrifying rages.

Bugger and sod, she’d scream. Bugger and sod. Bugger, bugger bugger, sod sod sod.

She was English.

Years later, living in the States, when she complained about “Dirty American swear words,” I drew her attention to the sexual connotations of her preferred British words. She didn’t believe me.

Looking back, I can’t recall incidents that might have triggered these outbursts, they just occurred — seemingly out of nowhere. Perhaps either my sister or I had inadvertently stepped on eggshells.

As adults, many years later, there were certain eggshells around my sister. Topics best avoided. Perhaps she felt the same around me. It requires a lot of effort this constant fear of eggshells. This ongoing need to carefully avoid anything that might stir things up.

To not poke the bear.

At some point, it seemed time to cut the losses and move on. Sadly, we’ve been estranged for years. Perhaps it’s better that way, I don’t know.

And so he walks on eggshells, Susan SL writes of her husband.

He does what he can to not be a part of the cultural sexism and misogyny; to be a part of the solution. We each share in our partnership, we both do our agreed upon tasks, he listens to my joys and frustrations, I listen to his, we sit on the front porch with a drink. My anger sits between us though. I wonder if there is a little wedge like this in many relationships (no matter how healthy the relationship is).

I wonder how there cannot be a wedge. All the subjects that can no longer be discussed, the fear of angry outbursts, the defensiveness, the emotional retreat, the distancing. Communication helps to a point, but after the same eggshell-littered ground is trodden over and over, it all becomes numbing.

So I wrote this, not knowing an answer. I still don’t have one. But I like to end my stories on a slightly more upbeat note so . . . take a look at the picture of one of the flower boxes in my garden — the gaillardia and nicotania are thriving on a mix of coffee grounds and . . . wait for it, egg shells.

The non-metaphorical kind, of course.

A link to Susan’s story which is definitely worth a read . . .

I mostly write about living in France. Some links to a few stories: