It’s funny how words can shift and shimmer, isn’t it? We often think of them as fixed, like little stones in a riverbed, always the same. But sometimes, a word can feel like it’s got a secret life, a hidden meaning that blooms when you least expect it. Take ‘dujour,’ for instance. On the surface, it’s a French word, a simple descriptor for ‘of the day.’ It’s what you’d find on a menu, ‘soup du jour,’ or perhaps in a fashion magazine, ‘la mode du jour.’ It speaks of the immediate, the current, the fleeting.
But then, you hear it, or perhaps you feel it, in a context that feels… warmer. More connected. You might be watching a scene, like the one from ‘Josie and the Pussycats,’ where amidst the chaos of discovering subliminal messages in their music, there’s a moment of genuine, albeit exasperated, camaraderie. Alexandra’s sharp accusation, Josie’s determined push, the Cabot siblings’ inaction, and Alexander’s facepalm – it’s a messy, imperfect, but undeniably shared experience. Even Melody, finding a lipstick warning in her shower, responds with a childlike, optimistic doodle, a small act of defiance that speaks volumes about her spirit. These aren't just individuals; they're a unit, bound by shared absurdity and a common goal, however misguided their methods might be at times.
This is where ‘dujour’ starts to feel like more than just ‘of the day.’ It starts to feel like ‘for today,’ or even ‘together today.’ It’s the shared breath, the collective shrug, the inside joke that only makes sense to those who are in it. It’s the understanding that, no matter how bizarre the circumstances, you’re facing them with a group of people who, for better or worse, are your people.
Think about it. When you’re navigating the everyday, the mundane, the slightly ridiculous moments that make up life, who do you turn to? Who shares your laughter at the absurdity, your frustration at the setbacks, your quiet triumphs? It’s your family, right? And ‘family’ isn’t always about blood ties. It’s about the people who show up, who understand your quirks, who offer a hand (or a facepalm) when you need it. It’s the people who make the ‘dujour’ – this particular day, this particular moment – feel less like a solitary experience and more like a shared journey.
It’s a subtle shift, I know. But words are living things. They adapt, they absorb the contexts we place them in. And when ‘dujour,’ with its sense of the immediate and the present, is infused with the warmth of shared experience, of mutual understanding, of belonging… well, it starts to sound a lot like family. It’s the feeling of being in sync, of being understood, of being part of something bigger than yourself, even if it’s just for this one day. And in that sense, ‘dujour’ can indeed mean family.
