Illustration by Madeleine Stamer
It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon making it a perfect day to borrow my mom's car to run some errands as a I count down days before heading back to Paris. I took pleasure in one of my favorite hyber-American activities, a trip to the holy grail; Rite Aid. Pharmacies in France are exactly that; pharmacies where you buy medicine and health related products. You hear that? Health related products. The French think it's absolutely insane that we can buy medicine, cigarettes, candy, a barbecue grill and why not? - a compilation mixed CD all in the same place, no less a pharmacy. I think it's genius.
After my Rite-Aid bliss, I picked my mom up at at the gym who was still in her Butt Lift class, so I sat in the waiting room reading the excessive Fall Issue of Elle when I heard a perky voice greet me, "Hey there!" I was being yanked from my Miu Miu glitter heel euphoria and looked up to see a twenty-something year old girl wearing a tank top that read 'I Date Your Husband!'. Unacceptable. "Hi" I responded, slightly disturbed while slurping up the last of my Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee. "Do you want me to read your BMI?" she asked with too much excitement. "Not really." I dryly responded. She made a faux-sad face and cocked her hip out and rested her hand on it. "Pleeeeeease?" she pleaded. "It's part of today's promotion!" she continued. "No thanks, really. I'm just waiting to pick my mom up. I'm not a customer." I said trying to make her think that I was doing her a favor and that she can go back to liking people's statuses on facebook. She looked at me and then perked up as if an idea popped into her head. "I'll give you a free t-shirt!" she said with desperation. "What color?" I asked. "Bluuuuuuuuuue." she said as if she was tempting a child with a fudgesicle. Hm, well, I could use a new t-shirt. "Ok." I accepted with a shrug. I walked over to her little station where she instructed me to stand on the scale. As if I wasn't already feeling bad about myself. I was 10 pounds heavier than I thought I was. Awesome. With a BMI index above average. Double awesome. "Looks like someone's been having a good summer!" she said while looking and smiling at me from the corner of her eye. "Why? Because according to your machine I'm overweight? Maybe I have been having the worst summer of my life and I'm eating my blues away." I offered a tad sharper than I had intended to. Feeling bad, I rescinded my aggression. "But thank you for taking the time on your otherwise busy day." I said as we stood in the desolate lobby. "It's my pleasure." She then reached out to touch my shoulder with compassion, cocked her head to the left, "Look, there is a little tiny you underneath all of that who just dying to come out!" Her big brown eyes stared back at me with 'understanding' as her hand stayed rested on my shoulder. I looked at it and looked back at her while absorbing her words, "Like a Russian Matryoshka Doll?" was the only response I could muster up. Bouncy Betty looked at me like I had just asked her to explain the heliocentric theory and froze up. "Forget it. Where do I sign up?" I succumbed.
Bouncy Betty had talked me or rather bullied me into signing a 2 year contract for 20 bucks a month. Now I have a gym in Paris and in New York. Unfortunately, just joining doesn't make me lose weight, I have to actually go. I got home feeling absolutely horrible and stared at my naked self in the mirror. I turned around and realized that I have 90's butt. The way butts looked in 90's mom-jeans; wide and long. Back in the gilded age when skinny people were thin, not disgustingly emaciated.
Tomorrow starts my first day at my New York gym and hopefully, I will tone up before getting picked up by my Sebastien at CDG in two weeks. Silver lining: At least I'll understand the instructors better than I do in Paris. Side note: I hate Bouncy Betty.
