With Facebook’s algorithm constantly bombarding me with content that I land up engaging with because of misleading titles (looking at you pointedly Vogue.com), and then systematically tracking me down across devices, I seem to be constantly overdosing on the likes of ‘Lazy Girl Hair Hacks, Ten Best Mug Cake Recipes That Don’t Need an Oven, Twenty Seven Times You Knew You Were a 90’s Kid, Tasty videos, Fail-safe wing tip liner for beginners’ . But over the years what has remained fail-proof in the world of quick content is a set of articles that can be quickly categorized under ‘How to be French’.

Now the first question is why does anyone assume I want to be French, but given my enthusiasm (fine, obsession) for all things French and ce-je-ne-sais-quoi, I did to end up clicking on a few of them (How to get French girl hair, top 5 fragrances all Parisiennes own, how to holiday like a French lady to name a few) and before I knew it, I had been ‘profiled’, ‘audienced’ and ‘retargeted’ to get a daily dose of French correction.

To begin with I certainly didn’t mind reading up on acquiring that insouciant charm French women seem to possess in popular culture. But what became more and more apparent following each article is that to be a French girl, the following are non-negotiable-

· BE THIN- You must be born with a naturally slim, long body so that androgynous Isabel Marant outfits settle on your body, touch it ever so slightly but never hug it, gliding over your contours just so. You can’t ever get too close to a French woman. (How to handle your relationships like French women)

· EAT IN SECRET (OR NOT AT ALL)- The world mustn’t see you eat, it is most appropriate if it seems like you survive on a diet of mixed berries, designer smoke, café noisette and some invigorating Parisian air, a walk in which will give your cheeks a natural blush tinge so that your personal care essentials get limited to the bare essentials- all of which you can seemingly get at a local pharmacy. (How to work out à la mode)

· DON’T RUSH- Never let on what you just did and always look like you have a lot of time. Because everything you do involves languor and some sort of feline grace. With some of the rituals mentioned in these articles, French women seem awfully indulgent to me, which is perhaps the one take-away I took particular note of and added to my to-do’s. Indulge self. (How to care for yourself like a Parisienne)

The French woman then seems rather perfect to me and god knows I’d love to be this semi-mythical creature, but today as I returned tired, sweaty and defeated from my morning run, and chanced upon an article on how “she performed Pilates to make her body un peu musclée without adding an inch to her ballerina-slim body … barely breaking a sweat, she moved to the spa”, I was overcome with a strong urge to smack this smug, most likely make-believe figment of fashion magazine folklore.

I have nothing against French women of course, all I’ve met have been beautiful and accomplished in their own right without subscribing to any of these ‘French Article Notifications’, and it is these articles I can’t subject myself to anymore. There is nothing wrong with there being proof of action, which seems to be the one thing fashion magazines set out as a mandate to be French. Unfortunately for them however, I think most women are secure enough with their identities and with announcing who they are and what they just did. Yes, I just worked out in this old grey t-shirt and those are sweat patches. Yes, I just spent a grand on getting my hair blow-dried. Yes, this dress is new and I wore it for you. Yes, I just ate the entire portion and didn’t leave half behind- there wasn’t much anyway and I’m paying for all of it. And yes, I can be any woman I like; it depends on my mood and that should be fine.

I moved to London nearly four months ago and have been looking for jobs almost obsessively for the last two. While the process of looking for a job is harrowing enough, as I’ve recently discovered, it is the guilt and panic of being momentarily dependent on someone else that has been the hardest to suppress. No one has said it in as many words to me, and quite frankly I’ve just received lot of motivating one-liners, but I notice in the faintest widening of eyes and twitch of lips- hyper-aware as this free time has now made me- an incredulity of sorts over my current situation.

Quitting a job you love, moving to another continent and getting used to a slightly more domesticated format of living with a partner, should afford you some empathy, from yourself first and then others. But by now the ideal of a successful woman has been so strongly indoctrinated in me by the articles I read, the women I meet and the general conversation surrounding feminism, that I am constantly plaguing myself with questions like ‘Why didn’t you ask him to move for you?’, ‘How could you move somewhere without clarity on the job scenario?’, ‘Should I just study again to be more employable?’. All of these are questions I have fairly sensible answers to, yet not one day goes by when I don’t repeat the process.

Somewhere down the line I suppose, it just became unacceptable for a well-educated woman to take a break from her career for reasons related to love and relationships. With the way millennials go about their careers and frenetic lives now, I believe there is still some pride to be felt in taking time off from work because of a stress-related burnout but certainly none to be taken in a situation which finds you matching any of society’s expectations from 30 years ago, i.e. getting married to a person you love and allowing yourself to temporarily side-line your career to be with them.

I write this ramble of words from one corner of my dining table, where I have sat diligently for the past two months from morning to evening, watching the trees outside change subtly from a bereft brown to a soothing green, praying that this be a metaphor for my own job-related fortunes. However, as I use the hours of writing cover letters and online tutorials increasingly as excuses to avoid household tasks like hoovering, I am distinctly aware that I’m striking a very unfortunate middle ground between ‘boss lady’ and ‘domestic goddess’. And with this last line, I am aware of my worrying lack of self-love and increasing dissatisfaction with this period of blurred responsibilities.

I long for a routine that extends beyond forcing myself to wake up for no real reason and get out of an endless cycle of repeat cups of tea so I can enforce some discipline in this nebulous stretch of time that exists between waking and waiting. But what I long for most is an easing up on the structures that we place on ourselves to fashion the lives we lead- to wake up and be secure enough with my position in life right now so that a rejection mail will not have the power to ruin my day, to stop thinking of each day as merely an addition to a growing block of time away from work. I want to enjoy this time for what it is- a temporary holiday, and not a sentence.

And appreciate these blooming flowers for more than just their metaphorical value.