Biting the Bullet

I did it. After whimpering and feeling sorry for myself, certainly since I arrived in Rwanda but probably since I realized that english isn't going to cut it in the world beyond the Kootenays, I was hanging out with Bonny during coffee break, and she was saying she was excited about her new Kiswahili course she's starting next week. This is from the girl who is a whiz at languages-she speaks a million of them. And I was lamenting, as I have daily here, about how I really needed to improve my french, la ti da. And she said, go to the Belgian School and see what they offer. This option had been drawn to my attention a couple of weeks ago, but one of my colleagues said he thought courses had already begun. Excellent, an excuse not to check it out. But Bonny was somehow able to hold a mirror up and I was doing precisely what I despise in others: making lame excuses. So despite all my reasons why I wasn't going to: it's expensive, it's inconveneint as it is far from home, whine whine whine snivel snivel, I am now signed up for my first class tonight. Not sure how it happened, but I hear this is a good thing.
The thing is, I know I need to learn french. I have been pathetic about my grudge against my parents, who made me learn russian and didn't have the insight to know that I was one day going to endeavour to become an international superstar and russian wasn't going to help me a lot. If they had been thinking, they would have put me in russian immersion and then switched me into french immersion.
Granted, if I recall my youth, I wasn't much more agreeable than I am now, so I suspect I would have been, ahem, difficult to negotiate with at the time. Especially considering I was a late-bloomer with my international endeavours. Ie, Rotary didn't interest me in the slightest, and when my best friend Steph tried to get me to go to Guatemala in grade 10, I totally balked. No thanks, I like Robson.
During my undergrad, I carried on with Russian. In Cameroon I lived with a guy who only spoke french. Want to talk about a gong show? I got a bit better then but nothing amazing. During my Masters degree, I did take some french, but I believe it was for something ridiculous like an hour a week. I also took some Arabic, which I loved, but same thing. Not enough.
The grudge has persisted: Why is the Kootenays so insulated that the figurative "they" don't understand that as a babe I should have been exposed to a million languages European-style? How on earth did UBC let me graduate with Poli Sci and IR and not make me learn french? Why did the placement people at home not listen to me when I told them I didn't speak french? (ie they should have placed me in a nice anglophone setting where I didn't have to have my very upsetting lack of language glare me in the eye). I have gotten so pathetic that I have even gone so far as to fantisize about the possibility of someone creating some sort of microchip that they could implant into my brain that would solve my learning the french woes. Truly truly sad.
So. For six hours a week after work, I will be learning french. I am completely resistant, but hoping for the best. Wish me luck.