Battle of the Bulge

Despite what the title may indicate, this post has nothing to do with my previous one on Normandie. This post is about a very personal battle. One that is about to be fought between me and the patisserie.

I have come full circle. A very round, flabby circle. As I was running two days ago (for the very first time in almost half a year), I had to smile, while simultaneously trying hard not to stop breathing. Not only was I back on the exercise train, but my desired path was none other than Avenue Foch. For those of you who have been following this since the beginning, the very same street was the location for one of my most disappointing early Paris moments. Not only was I now exercising on it, fully aware of my surroundings, it seems only appropriate that I now know the correct pronunciation, which is Foe-shh. Not the more harsh and less welcoming “f*ck,” which I had initially drummed up from my lack of French skills (and which also seemed much more fitting at the time).

Matt and I have now been here almost half a year. I can safely say that we know Paris. Last night we attended a “Play Day” 30th birthday for our next door neighbor. Moi, clad in a marabou-lined bunny outfit, and Matt as the bunny hunter, donning wellies and carrying a fake rifle, felt right at home as we hopped (pun intended) on the Metro excited to celebrate with our new French friend (and her fantastic friends, who were only too willing to chat with us in English -- a large "Merci beaucoup" for that). Being here for almost six months, I can also start to talk about Paris from a more realistic, and less idealistic, position. And with this, I have a secret to share, and a myth to debunk.

This French woman is getting fat. It started out as, “We are new here, so let’s test all the goodies Paris has to offer.” Six months later I find myself still delighting in the pain aux raisins, the bliss of Haribo, and the satisfaction of a warm, chewy baguette. But like all good things, this too must come to an end (or so say my thighs). With this change of heart (and literal change in my heart), I have decided that it is time to swap my boots for Nikes, and get back in the game.

Don’t worry, this battle is one I am determined to win. It is hard to not keep your battle face on when your boot camp takes place in the Tuileries gardens, walking past the Louvre every Tuesday and Thursday to get there. Or when you use the Arc de Triomphe as your point of reference when running to and from the Bois de Boulougne. The looming issue, however, is that this scenery seems to be more fitting a backdrop for a nice café crème and a pistache macaroon. I must keep reminding myself of the ultimate goal: baguette-bulge elimination. Ladies and gentleman, the French patisserie is going down (and hopefully not down my throat).

Let the battle begin!