I am a yellow vest

I am a yellow vest. I took the dust under the front seat of the cars, along with the warning triangle and the breathalyzer. And here I am, the little yellow, the equal of the red cap of 2013.

Here I am the emblem of a popular revolt, uncertain and rebellious, of a Jacquerie of the diesel province against the metropolises who green on a scooter.

I am the yellow vest, I am ugly and fluorescent, bright and jump-eyed. I look ridiculous, but I'm a good help when the mechanics are out and the whole world lets you vegetate on the emergency stop area of economic opportunities.

I am the last resort when the big trucks of the international transit and the Peugeot 3008 design with smoked rear windows and French bling-bling roll over you by honking their indifference. And that is why those who feel socially out of touch, in a sociological road, in societal exile, have for me the eyes of Chimène and display me on the dashboard like a yellow flag, that of the cuckolds of luck.

I am the yellow vest of those who lean on the counter of the bistros that will close soon, of those who go hunting since they lost their place, but also teenagers who in the dark morning and the pallor of autumn, make my reflective tapes shine and flash the tint of their iPhone so that the driver of the school bus embarks them to the high school of the sub-prefecture.

I am the friend of the caretakers of the rural desert, the mate of the discomfited administrative debut, the comforter of the regressors of displaced maternity, the courts removed and even perceptions in ruins.

I do not cost much, 2.90 euros at Norauto. I am in polyester, proof that I belong to this old world before the COP 21, a world that stinks, which flatters and which leaves to make bubbles in the seas of plasticized Sargasses.

Even if you put me on easy, without ever dislocating your shoulder, you cannot help feeling a little ashamed of me, like a lousy, slobbering and slobbering uncle, who laughs stupidly at tired jokes and talks too high at the end of the banquet.

I weigh 120 grams and yet I cause a heavyweight threat to a government that travels in Eurostar, a small telegraphist of the liberal and cosmopolitan demands of Brussels.

My two gray belts in microbeads of 5 centimeters and my hook-and-loop fasteners panic the fine gentlemen and beautiful ladies who never dirty their hands at the gas pump, move-in Uber and have their packages delivered by the drones of Amazon.

My fluorescent mesh makes shame on the diminutive granola and chia-seed eaters, forced to wear me when they grind limp on their electric bike.

I am the yellow jacket that is washed at 40 degrees, drum drying and dry cleaning prohibited. But even if you put me to the machine, I am a little sensitive love. Nostalgic, I still hum old jokes, especially when their composer, Francis Lai, just took the time to escape.

I would have liked the Paulette of the song, little queen bicycle, to make me his yellow jersey when it made sweaty Yves Montand and his friends, unable to run the daughter of the postman in the steepness of rolling countryside.

On the other hand, I have little hope that the man and the woman of the Chabadabada of the sixties, the magnificent Jean-Louis Trintignant and Anouk Aimée, never thought of decorating their duffle-coats of my lemon coat.

No one was forced to wear a seatbelt. Think if my incongruity would have been total, slipped on the floor of the car of the rally, number 184, which tumbled on the planks of Deauville, to launch its calls of the lighthouse there. However, I could have been a lifejacket when the Ford Mustang, filmed by Claude Lelouch, pranced along the waves. Even if no one was afraid to get wet.

I am the yellow vest and I am a friend of the fashion kaiser. This good Karl Lagerfeld has promoted my usefulness of a maxim well felt during an awareness campaign for road safety. He said, "It's yellow, it's ugly, it's wrong with anything, but it can save your life."

I did not take the fly in front of this ambivalent compliment. On the other hand, I'm not sure that my elegant friend, despite his off-tax and overpriced side, is very much in tune with the refractory philosophy of my new mission.

I am a yellow vest. I am the scowling and ill-identified cousin of the red reflective vest worn by the tire-burner trade unionists at the doors of the relocated factories.

Small yellow, blood red, fart green? Political mixing and ideological marriage are not guaranteed. And that's good because it could pull on the brown.