I hosted a stew party (and I liked it)

Or should it be, lived to tell the tale.

I wanted to reciprocate all the kind invitations I've got these past few months so I invited sixty people to my parents' house, coaxing them with the sweet, fragrant promise of stew (vegetarian and goulash), masses of cheese and homemade cookies. Twenty-five people accepted and since I am still a student, still at the stage where forcing people to sit on the floor does not automatically mean dislocated disks or terrible pain, and since I appear to be completely wacked-out insane , I thought this would work out quite well.

Being a hostess is hard, y'all. Not only are you supposed to slave to make your place look nice, cook batches of food for famished and often allergy-ridden ingrates, but you are then to enjoy your own party, or at least, make it look effortless. This three-tier cream cake with sugar rosebuds? Oh, it's so easy to bake! That Ming vase your kid just wrecked? Just an annoying knick-knack that was a pain to dust. Oooh, look: someone is lonely and bored in a corner of the living-room! Must entertain them! You then abandon Promising Hot Man and go talk to Shy Young Lady while your erstwhile prospect goes away.

Plus we had the following situation: I invited people from my new university and old friends together. As we all know, this doesn't always work out. The old friends arrive full of inside-jokes, the new ones want to talk about classes the old ones don't know anything about, and you're in the middle, trying to pelt new conversation topics at people randomly, hoping one will stick. This usually means a newsworthy topic which annoys half your guests and creates a screaming match.

We also had my ex-boyfriend turned best friend and my oldest friend (thirteen years, people) meeting my Fling for the first time.

A recipe for disaster, you say. I was curiously calm during the whole thing, especially considering that I was fresh off the Eurostar, so to speak. I made huge amounts of food. I bought amazing cheese. I baked cookies (but, ahem, not from scratch. Give me a break! I was tired!). I opened the wine bottles to let them breathe. And then I put on clean trousers, smudged my eyeliner and waited for people to come.

It went really well. Everyone loved the party, and I did not turn into a Tazmanian Hostess, whirling around snatching plates from people, forcing dessert on everyone and laughing in a manic way. "HAVE SOME MORE? NO? ARE YOU SURE? HAHAHAHA!"

Magic moments of being a grown-up party-person:

* The wine talk. People talk about wine, instead of comparing cheap beer experiences. We're OLD.
*Someone asked me if they could smoke pot in my apartment and I said no problem. No one wanted to share though.
*No one started necking in my bathroom.
*No one robbed me.
*No one drunkenly slow-danced and then passed out into a coma.

OLD.

I am officially a hostess.

Ostrich burgers and bad phone booths

I took a lot of random pictures in England. I went marketing (of course) and saw that low-fat is a selling point for ostrich burgers. There is an ostrich farm next to Cambridge. They must love the weather. How did someone get this brilliant idea?
My father asked me if ostriches were a more sustainable form of meat than cows, and my answer to that, as a trainee environmentalist, was to laugh incontrollably. I know that ostrich meat is very healthy, but there is something inately absurd about the bird that makes me snort at the idea of eating it.

The splendiferous part of Cambridge is how ornate everything is. You're walking in the street, minding your own business, and POF! Raise your head and you see this. You also meet people in bowler hats (the porters) who tell you about the history of the colleges. If you are a history nerd, this makes progress through the town very dawdling indeed.

I saw this every day in the Quaker library. I love that sentence. I'm not a believer, but as a recovering depressive, this rings a bell. I know, too sugary for words, but bear with me, turn up the Mahler, and have some fudge before it's all gone. There are moments where the light comes from the strangest places, from people you hardly know, or going on strange adventures, even from a little corner on the Internet. Sending hugs!

Am I going all maudlin on you? Fear not, I have pornographic phone booths for my finish!

In all the red phone booths in London, you get these pornographic postcards with numbers you can call. Firstly, this is so low-tech it's laughable. Secondly, in a public phone booth? With kids going to school? Or do you stealthily steal a card with a robot-lady wearing a strap-on, saying "I can go through the back door, can you?" and slip it in your business bag, in case of an emergency?

The moral of this is that a girl can spend hours thinking about GOD LIFE LIGHT WORK QUAKERS and end up snapping dirty pictures while giggling like a fool.

Cambridge and London (snippets)

Hello Cambridge! you are so pretty. Let me take somber and depressing snapshots of you.

What can I say, I love food, and I love sweets, so instead of taking nice pictures of buildings, I took pictures of the fudge shop.

Cambridge, the Bridge of Sighs.

So I'm in the Eurostar station, coming home after a lot of work, and some fun too. I went to London to do library research in the Quaker library, which is amazingly quaint, filled with sweet and insane people doing research as well, and filled with the rythmic sound of people turning pages at the same time. The way I like it, baby. And in the evening I have nice dinners with friends who bore with my endless prattling. When you spend 7 hours a day writing, you feel loquacious, you really do. You also seem to think that your arcane subject is FASCINATING. I apologize to my friends, but that's what you risk when you get yourself an over-enthusiastic multitasker pal.

But it wasn't all work. I popped into Cambridge to spend the weekend with my friends N and Am, cuddled baby Sym, ate so much food (damn those triple chocolate butter Belgian biscuits from Sainsbury's) and slept. I needed a break. And my friends made me feel like a Wonderful Butter Biscuit of a Girl.

Those of you who've exchanged emails would have an inkling about why I like anything Holmes. Inside joke!

Can you tell I'm a bit frantic/happy? The internet connection here is prehistoric so expect more pictures at a later date. I'm crossing the Channel back to classes and WORKWORKWORK, but all in all, I feel regenerated. It's all in the fudge, really.

What's your accent?

I can't pronounce my "th"s.
I can't say "three", I say free. Insert joke here, my family has been laughing for years about how "frilling" my life is.
I can't say "there", I say vere.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't embarassed by this. I went to a shoe repair shop this morning in London, and as I asked about sole remplacements, the shoe man asked me where I came from.
"That a nice accent you got, love." Yes I know! I spik like dat! And once someone makes the remark, it gets worse and worse. Ze split perzonality, don't you know!

I'm self-conscious about my voice in English. I have trained as a singer for years, so I hate not feeling in control of how I sound. My sister has a sponge-like ear for language, and now talks with a thick American accent, whereas I hesitate between British and mid-Atlantic, with a nice dollop of French. Not only the "th"s, but also my intonations, which are energetic, as opposed to the usual monotone. The great test, apparently, is how you say "bottle". If you're British, you'll use a glottal stop and say "Bo'll". If you are American, you'll say: "Boddle". I say "Bot-El". Which sounds like a Superman character.

Is there a class distinction for accents in America the way there is in Great-Britain? There is a geographical one, certainly, but does the way you talk mean anyone knows how educated you are?

I can't address this topic without including Professor Higgins' great rant in My Fair Lady.

An Englishman's way of speaking absolutely classifies him,
The moment he talks he makes some other Englishman despise him.
One common language I'm afraid we'll never get.
Oh, why can't the English learn to set
A good example to people whose English is painful to your ears?
The Scotch and the Irish leave you close to tears.
There even are places where English completely
disappears. In America, they haven't used it for years!

My Valentine plans

This is a strange time for me; I'm acting so much out of character all the time that I'm coming to doubt that I have a character, or maybe I'm morphing into someone I don't know yet, which isn't bad per se, not at all, just troubling.

I booked two tickets for an all-night dance party in a big industrial space in Paris, on the 13th of February. I love dancing, but I am very, very bad at it. Imagine a 5'10 graham cracker on LSD and you'll have an idea. I hate dancing in front of people, but when I'm in need of some cheering up, it's up with the music and on with the prancing around in my room. Also, most people are shy when it comes to dancing, and rely on chemical components to loosen up. Which for me is totally out of the question.

Well, we're taking this show to the road. We're going to break some moves!
Oh God, I'm so bad at this stuff. I have no game. Why? Why can't I just glide effortlessly on the dance floor, shake those hips and seemlessly weave my magic around my prey? Because I have no coordination, that's what.

And I've invited someone I like to come with me to a 90's Dance Music Rave Party. On Valentine's night.

"What is this thing all about, anyway?"

"We'll dance all night in a warehouse. And I'll be wearing a Spice Girl T-shirt."

Small pause.

"Done."

I like him, I really do.

ps: any dancing tips will be very very appreciated.

Twice bitten, thrice shy

Maybe I could make a check-list to hand out when people hit on me. It would state my political preferences, my favorite book, why I am a vegetarian,and so forth. Like that people would immediately know if there was something so offensive to them that they could politely decline: "Sorry, eating pulses is morally repugnant to me." Of course, I could also quickly peruse their check-list (hmmm, hates puppies...hates watching sports on TV...I'll pass).

This fantasy is completely dumb. Let me rephrase that: it's not dumb when you come out of a long relationship. When you remember saying:"Just got a call from So-and-so" and your boyfriend looks at you with compassion because he knows the deal with So-and-so, and you don't have to explain anything. Maybe my allergy to exposition is why I'm a serial monogamist. It's pure laziness.

"Relationships take a lot of effort." I agree when someone says this to me (usually just before they get married, for some reason) but I would say that meeting people is a lot of effort as well. Trying not to be fake, but also trying to make a good impression. It's all pretty exhausting. Add to that the jittery feeling that you are about to discover something terrifying about your date and the whole thing just does me in. Like that night when my date told me that immigration was a sin. Slowly backing away now...

Every single one of my boyfriends has been someone incredibly different from me. Different temperement, different interests, different backgrounds. So maybe the check-list wouldn't even work, because I like being incompatible with someone. Or maybe the checklist should only be one question:



Picture from the absolutely marvellous xkcd

I need...

I need a holiday a vacation a minibreak you name it.

I need a long walk in the mountains, with a backpack, a tent and a big crusty loaf of bread wrapped in yesterday's newspaper, a hunk of cheese, one of those thick pale yellow Dutch cheeses, and lots of water.

I need the sound of rocks and pebbles rollicking down hill under my shoes, the smell of trees and soft crushed green grass, and the feel of bark against my cheek when I rest in the shade, swallowing my meal slowly, enjoying the sunset.

I need a night alone, under the stars, thinking of friends and fun times and all the wonderful things of the world. I'll hear strange noises and won't worry, because the air is thick and sweet and summery, and my heart is content.

And I need to go home with scratches all over my ankles, a bad sunburn on my nape, a few scribbles in my diary, a few underexposed pictures taken with my camera, stopping by at the newsagent in the station to get some chocolate for breakfast.

This summer, please.

Paris-London

Only four more days of this exam hell. I'm heading off to London afterwards to go do research in the Quaker library and I'm pretty excited. I like going to foreign cities on my own and take in things at my own rythmn.

I already have a few postcard recipients lined up, but if you're like me, you enjoy getting things in the mail that aren't bills, right? So if you would like a postcard from London, please tell me and I'll email you to get your address. I love writing to people! Maybe we could start a blogger postcard club.

The Jewish Bride

This is one of my favourite painting by Rembrandt, The Jewish Bride. I love the way the man looks at his bride, the way he puts his hand on her heart. When I look at this image, I feel a quiet sense of content seep through me again. Rembrandt has the most wonderful way with light and darkness, and when I stare long enough, I get that dizzy sensation of passing from a darkened room to a garden in summer. At first you blink and there is almost pain, and suddenly vividness becomes pleasurable. The smells of August fill the air, and the low humming of creatures makes you walk that much slower.

This painting makes me more aware of other people's body language.


I always wonder what keeps long-term relationships going. I wonder if it's that look, that hand, that infinite trust, that keeps the light from being swallowed by dusk. Maybe it's finding a person that gives you that funny, heart-twisting splash of sensations.

I love that painting.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T

Do you respect yourself? Do you respect your own worth, your integrity, your right to choose what is right for you?

Because I don't. At least, not enough.

Every time I agree to do something that goes against my feelings, my convictions and my well-being.

Every time I avoid conflict instead of expressing my beliefs.

Every time I don't stand up for myself.

I talk a lot about depression here, sometimes in veiled ways, sometimes openly. I think a lot about it too. Can't really help it. Yet sometimes I wonder if I have low self-esteem because of depression or if depression is a consequence of chronically low self-esteem.

In any case, I have to change this aspect of myself.


Respect is something I must earn for myself this year. I have arrived at that point in my life where politeness, demureness, being fracking lady-like, are just encouraging me to shut up and take it. And I don't want to.
Anymore.

So I know I said I wasn't going to make resolutions...but I want to make 2010 the year of self-respect. And courage.

Wish me luck for my exam week!

I <3 teaching

I enjoy teaching young kids. Maybe because I'm childish myself, but I understand the way their brains are wired. I live in a world of imagination. When you study history, you need to project yourself in a world that no longer exists, and it's something children find easy to do. I often get lost in alternative universes. When a little girl tells me she saw a dragon yesterday, it doesn't irritate me. I've been talking to Benjamin Franklin in my head.

Yesterday I was teaching one of my pupils. This year I have no time to do anything (seriously) and this is a labour of love. I accepted to teach these kids because I enjoy their company. Their mother pays me but truthfully, I would do it for nothing.

We were studying a limerick by Edward Lear, one of my favourite.

"There was a Young Lady whose chin,
Resembled the point of a pin:
So she had it made sharp,
And purchased a harp,
And played several tunes with her chin."

After we had both laughed over it and discussed relative pronouns (grammar is fun), I asked him if he ever wrote poetry. He looked scandalized at the suggestion.

"I'm only ten! And poetry is hard."

I told him that poetry didn't have to be hard. I explained how French poetry is all about the length of the verse (so 8, 10, 12 syllables for instance) whereas English poetry is about stresses. I had brought some examples of "calligrammes", like this one.



"Why don't you write a calligramme? It won't have to rhyme."

And he did. He wrote his first poem in English. We read it out loud, trying to feel the stresses, changed a few words, and then he dated it and signed it.

"And I can write one whenever I want?"

It's hard to express what makes teaching so great. It's often a thankless, dreary job. You feel like you're swimming upstream. Have you noticed that when a child fails, it's the teacher's fault, but when he succeeds, it's due to his parents? I don't teach large classes, I can only imagine how draining it must be.

But having a little boy dedicate his first poem to you, and smile as if he just won a lifetime supplies of Nintendo games, well...
As I left the building, holding the poem against my chest because it didn't fit in my bag, I felt like I was over the moon.

So here is one of my favourite poets, Pablo Neruda, and one of my favourite poems, in honour of L's first poem ever.


If you forget me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

Rape culture in France

I'd like to talk about the way rape and sexual assault are perceived here in France, and how it effects the people I know. I'm not a counselor, or a sociologist, so this will be about my experience of rape culture.

Rape has been recognized as a crime in France since 1980 (you can get up to 15 years in prison). The legal definition is as follows: "Any sexual penetration (otherwise it's categorized as assault and not as rape) imposed upon another person through violence, constraint, threat, or surprise, is a rape."

Marital rape was legally recognized in 1992. These dates tell their own story.

In the media, rape has two different contexts. "Rape in the suburbs" and "City rape". Suburbs in France are not middle-class havens: they are what I think Americans call the projets, or ghettos. Young people who come from the suburbs (especially the Parisian ones) tend to describe themselves as "ghetto members". A few years ago, gang bangs became the subject of many an investigation. Young Muslim girls who would not wear a headscarf had been raped by several young men (usually men they knew socially) or set on fire. This brought about the idea that only immigrant religious extremists would rape. Rape was the product of alienation and misinformation.

On the other hand you have the City rape. This is defined by walking home late at night and being assaulted in the street. Victims of City rape are mostly pitied, but sometimes you'll read an article describing how drunk/skimpily dressed they were.

This is what I would call mainstream rape. Everyone agrees it's rape. Voilà. You don't go alone at night in some areas, it's a fact of life. As a runner I avoid some parts of Paris if I'm running at night. It's automatic. You go against the rules, you will be punished.

Much more problematic is date rape. I'll take the Polanski example, not because I'm not tired of that polemic, because I am. Yet the reaction of French intellectuals to the rape was scary and illuminating. It wasn't a rape because the mother of the girl entrusted her child to a known womanizer to do nude pictures. (So she pimped out her kid, basically). It wasn't a rape because the girl was not a virgin. You get the idea.

If you know your rapist, good luck to get your rape recognized as such. You egged him on. You sent the wrong signals. He was drunk. You were drunk.

As a French girl, you're taught how to flirt, that is, how to go far enough without going too far. If you go too far, you might end up in a situation beyond your control. This will be your fault. Rape education is focused on girls. We can avoid rape. Little is done to prevent rapists from raping.

Do I feel afraid, threatened every day? No. Am I bothered every day by some random person in the street? Yes.

"Hey pretty girl, want to come over tonight?"
"No, thanks."
"Have a good day then!"

This would be the nicest version of the typical exchange. Usually it goes along these lines:

"Hey pretty girl, want to come over tonight?"
"No, thanks."
"You fucking slut, just die already."

When I complain about this, I mostly hear people telling me that I'll miss it when it stops. Middle-aged women sigh wistfully about how they enjoyed being complimented, how they feel invisible now. The same women who tell me that I would be asking for rape if I went to a man's apartment alone. That I'd be sending out the wrong signals. To me, rape is less about sex than it is about violence. When I ask these people if it would be my fault if I were beaten up by a guy in his apartment, they usually say no. Yet rape would be my fault, somehow.

What I can tell you about French rape culture is that regardless of how "good" I am, someone will blame me for being raped, if this terrible thing happens to me one day. It will always be partly my fault. If I'm not drunk, it's because I wore a short skirt in a dangerous area. And why was I out in the middle of the night, anyway?

One day I was explaining to X, who's Australian, that I was afraid of travelling on my own because of violence and assault. He looked at me as if I were crazy. I realized how much I had internalized the French message that I had to restrict the way I live in order to be protected.

It's my responsability never to be assaulted. Even if it means living less of a life than if I were a man.

STFU Couples?

I stumbled upon the tumblr (hee) STFU Married. While some part of me was amused by how TMI some of those Facebook wall posts were, I was only seriously annoyed by the ones that expressed hatred, passive-agressiveness and bile. Why would you insult your ex-wife and sling accusations in a public forum? I hate it when people argue in public-it's one thing to have a disagreement about where you want to have dinner, it's a whole other ball game to describe your partner's poor skills in bed, horrendous parents or awkward mullet phase in front of a train compartment or in a hotel lobby. Let alone the interwebz.

But lovey-dovey messages? "OMG you are the best boyfriend ever I love you so much my little rabbit"? What's so wrong with that?

Last night I was invited to a lovely dinner party. Three couples were there, and I was the sole single person in the room. At one point all the couples were semi-cuddling (hair-stroking, neck-nuzzling) and one guy asked me if I felt uncomfortable. Of course not! Even at the height of my break-up misery, seeing two people staring in each other's eyes, lost to all things trivial, wrapped into their own paradise, never failed to make me smile.

The honeymoon period! Is there anything nicer? When your partner can do no wrong, when each phone call feels too brief, when the days are too short to cram in all the romance and excitement?

I remember mine, and I think back on it fondly.

Dear couples, I'm really happy for you and I hope your honeymoon phase lasts as long as possible. Because being in love and blurry-headed with passion is a wonderful thing.

STFU, haters.

Scarlet woman

Two years ago, I was a demure brunette. But secretly I yearned to go red.

I've always been fascinated by the mystique of the redhead.

There's Rita Hayworth.

I was so in love with Rita as a child. Her song-and-dance turns in Cover Girl or You never were lovelier fascinated me. In Cover Girl she's shot in Technicolor, and you get to see just how lovely her hair looks, in thick, red curls. She was certainly beautiful, but mostly enthusiastic and energetic. I associated her with freedom and happiness.

Then came my next obsession: Franka Potente in the indie German success Lola Rennt.

Potente plays this punk small-time gangster's girlfriend, and as a twelve-year old the simultaneous discovery of techno music and bright ketchup red hair was overwhelming. I dreamed of being her. She was resourceful, stunning and different. She wasn't afraid to dress differently, the way I was. She was badass.




But I was afraid to go red for a long time. It's not an easy colour to maintain. It gets depressingly pale very fast. It's trying to the complexion. It's noticeable. And most of all, I thought I would have to be a Jessica Rabbit to pull it off. Sex on legs, if you will. I never found myself pretty: sexy was a huge leap.

So it took a great deal of confidence to go red. I started with a slightly more russet tone to my originally brown hair back in May. Then in Germany I went to a seedy hairdresser and he gave me something starker. By this time I was beyond caring what other people thought. I loved the way red made me feel. Like a woman, and not like a girl. I stopped feeling uncomfortable when people complimented me. I started enjoying dressing up, changing sartorial personalities.



Bad picture, of course. My sister helped me refresh my colour yesterday! Good job, J.

I'm proud of being a redhead. I'd like to have Rita's graceful allure, Franka's punk pride, and Jessica's sex appeal, but in the end I'm happy to be my own version of the scarlet woman.

Playing it casual

"Can I bring a teapot next time I come? I really need tea in the morning."
He laughs at me.
"Why don't we take this slowly? Bring a saucer.I don't want you to think that we're going out or anything. Don't get too involved, Sara."

We joke about it but I am super nervous. I've never played it casual before.

I've always fallen in love before becoming someone's girlfriend.

I've never had a one-night stand. I'm a serial monogamist!

This guy is so relaxed about everything. I tell him what the situation is at the moment, not looking for anything serious, not wanting a "relationship", all that jazz. He just takes it all calmly and tells me to take things one day at a time.

"Just tell me when you feel uncomfortable and we can scale things down."

Which is terrific advice and I know I shouldn't overthink this. Yet...
I'm terrified of getting back into the mess I've just extricated myself from; the passionate love story that ends with someone feeling that I'm too complicated and difficult to deal with. I need some time outfrom all the compromises, and talks that come with coupledom. Where is this going? Am I giving enough? Am I taking enough? No more for some time, please.

I was at his place. He was cooking for me, as we chatted about this and that. I looked up at him shyly, hoping this is the right way of saying it, the right time, the right thing to do.

"Sorry I didn't answer yesterday. I was feeling very depressed and I tend to crawl into a hole."
"Do you get depressed often?"

Deep breath.

"Hmm. I do actually."
"Well, next time I call and you're not feeling so good, why don't you tell me what I can do to help? Maybe talking to someone would make it easier."

And there it is. That moment. The moment when I wonder. Now he's nice about it, but who's to tell when it will irremediably put him off? And anyway, where is this going? Am I casual enough? I don't want a therapist. I want a friend with benefits! Shut up head.

I'm not convinced I'm good at this casual game.

French women don't get fat

This post was inspired by Britni's photo essay on plus-size models.

When I was living in America, two things surprised me: the way people would discuss their weight problems and diets while actually having dinner; and the way exercise was seen as something virtuous, even necessary. "I don't exercise" got incredulous looks. Don't you know it's good for you???

In France, you don't talk about diets during meals. Being on a diet is not something you share with other people, it's shameful. It means you are going to be a bore at parties. It means that you are going to annoy friends and partners with the question:"Can you tell I've lost X kilos?"

Exercise is not seen as something virtuous: it's bewildering for many of us. Why would you inflict pain voluntarily on yourself? Sure, people do it, but only for the aesthetic benefits. No talk of "how good it feels".

Yet weight is an obsession. It's a secret, a hidden obsession. It's not that French women don't get fat; many are. I believe our obesity rates are climbing every year. But in Paris, populated mostly by rich people because of rent costs, being fat is something rare and strange. And if you're fat, well, you know...Just stop eating.

When I lived in Chicago, my views on weight changed drastically. On the one hand, I, the "plump" girl, was considered normal. On the other, the American relationship to food troubled me greatly. Food isn't only fuel: it's also taste and pleasure. I was dismayed not by the quantity of food but by its poor quality. I began to wonder if we couldn't combine the French and American attitudes to food and diet to create a healthier approach to eating!

I also met some wonderful people who talked to me about the scientific facts behind our bodies. I became an advocate of Health At Every Size. I realized that my weight (now I'm considered normal/big-boned, at twenty I was called "plump") was something I couldn't control completely, just like my height.

But you know what? Living in France I still have to listen to people criticizing others for being fat, for not being in control. As a recovering bulimic, this is not very helpful, but beyond that, it goes against scientific evidence and common humanity.

We rarely see images of fat people. In my side-bar you'll find an awesome fashion blog by Big Beauty, who lives in Paris. She's one of the rare "fatshionistas" in the French blogosphere. Every month or so, some French lady magazine does a spread on "fat fashion", modeled by size eights.

I believe we are imprisonned by the ideal image of the effortlessly thin French woman, smoking her cigarette while savouring her chocolate dessert. We're supposed to be perfect, while never showing strain or effort. A poll came out recently showing that French women are the thinnest in Europe, and simultaneously have the worst body image. I'm not surprised at all. I'm just sad.