Move that body

I dragged my sister to a Zumba class. It's a fitness/dance thing, mixing lots of different latin styles, and it's really exhausting.

I've done fitness classes this year, but it's only running that give me quiet. My brain stops talking talking, and my legs feel the pounding, and the world has a beautiful perfect silent quality to it.

I'm a terrible dancer (although an enthusiastic one) so I was hoping I could keep up with the Zumba teacher, an adorable Cuban man in his late thirties who could shake his money maker in a way I can only aspire to.

Something happened to me during that class. I lost myself in the music, in the gestures, in the tiredness of trying to keep up with the steps and not succombing to the heat, I found myself in that emptiness I love about running. I was pretty bad at anything requiring a good hip movement, Shakira has nothing to worry about yet, but I loved it.

That's the thing about exercice: I do it because it's the best cure for depression. I would do it if it bored me horribly. And I'll be honest: I don't like "fitness" for the sake of fitness, I don't care if I don't have perfect abs. One of the reasons I hated my bodysculpt class was all the negative body talk: "Come on ladies, let's get rid of that fat!" It was noisy and vulgar. People talked about dieting in the locker room. I'm a recovering bulimic: I don't need people talking about themselves as if they were slabs of meat.

I like the feeling that everything is slowing down and that I'm enjoying my own little nirvana for a while. And if it comes with a healthy dose of Cuban sexiness, that's pretty OK with me.

As I wrung the sweat out of my Tshirt at the end of the class, I exchanged a smile with my sister. She looked happy and worn out and delighted.

We walked slowly home, and I can't lie, I may have practised some of those hip shakes this morning.

Body image, aerobics and me

Maybe it was the way the instructor talked.
"Come on girls, shake that ass, we don't want any cellulite on the beach!"
"If you're not in pain, you're not shaping up!"

Maybe it was the techno music, including a remix of Whitney Houston's version of "I will always love you" which sounded like a child had tinkered with a DJing program on his parents' Mac. Some things should not be remixed. Or even sung. Dolly Parton's version is much better.

Or maybe it was the locker room. I hate locker rooms. They remind me of being chosen last for gym classes and they have a horror movie vibe about them. When I open a locker, I half expect to find a severed head with a post-it on its forehead.

Anyone who knows me just a bit will eventually hear my long rants about how we are conditioned from birth to hate ourselves so we will eventually buy stuff from advertisers. Whether you are thin, fat, in between, or even on a diet, you can love your body and it will show in your confidence. Ahem, here I am ranting again. Moving on...

I had an opportunity to put my endless speechifying to the test this week, when I went to an aerobics and stretching class with a friend. I belong to a track and field club and run about four times a week, but my friend wanted us to do something fun together and I accepted. Also I'm as stiff as a poker, so a bit of stretching won't harm me.

All the girls in the class were incredibly slim, lycra-clad and glossy-haired. I felt incredibly awkward among them from the beginning. I had no trouble following the class, even though I sometimes doubt I own abdominal muscles, and I enjoyed some portions of it, but I couldn't shake off the feeling that I was ugly. That I took too much space.


I had this feeling all throughout my eating disorder. I'm too big! I'm too tall! No clothes will ever fit! After months of cognitive therapy, I managed to feel proud of myself. I started running. I never feel bad about myself while I run, even if I'm slow or not feeling very well. I feel free, happy, and attuned to myself.

So why did that aerobics class make me feel so terrible?

It's not the other girls. In my university, almost all the female students are affluent and very groomed, with that thin look that most people associate with French women. I am usually the biggest person in any given class, but also among the tallest. This is fine.

So what to do? I've decided to give the class another go. Maybe I was cranky. Maybe I was having a bad day.

But if it still makes me feel bad, and full of self-loathing, I will drop it. At least I won't have to stick my bottom up in the air while the instructor intones: "Come on, girls, stretch those glutes!"

Is there an uglier word than "glutes"? I hope not.

V for Very Painful but Very Worth it

Oh boy, where to start.
I know!
I'll start at the end, when I crossed the line, when thousands of people were cheering me on, screaming encouragements. Well, they weren't cheering me on, but it felt like it.
I saw the 2 hour mark behind me, and I could not believe it.
I ran it in less than two hours; one hour, fifty-eight minutes to be precise. I feel like the Queen of the Planet, if she had such bad pain that she could hardly move. It's not so much going up the stairs as going down them actually. Someone laughed at me in the street, and I couldn't blame them. A guy in my class winked at me:" You obviously had a great week-end."
I certainly did, if not for any sexy reasons.

I would do it again in a flash. Once the pain stops, I mean.

Subway lust

I was sitting in the Parisian subway, reading a book by French novelist Maupassant. Coming back from the Track and Field practice, I could already feel the burn in my legs and abdominal muscles fade, and I was in that mellow state of endomorphinese that long-distance can give you. I'm told it's like a shot of morphine or heroin. Being quite the neophyte in drug matters, I can't tell you. Someone got in at the next station. I noticed beautiful honey-blond hair and since I am very short-sighted, not much else, and as the person sat down next to me, I apologized in case my running gear bag was in the way. I then found out my neighbour was a gorgeous man. I then blushed and returned to my reading. He started to fumble in his own bag and got out a compendium of Russian poetry, translated in German, so I could read over his (broad) shoulder. Handsome and German-literate? OMG. For the next four stops I wondered if I should ask for his phone number. No, wait, give him mine. What if he's taken? Or wait, I've just come back from my training session, all sweaty and pink-cheeked. I must look like shit. He's really beautiful. Oh no, only two stops left.

As the train grumbled through Paris I leaned back on my seat and purposefully brushed his shoulder with mine, before leaving my arm to rest against his. My heart was beating ridiculously hard. I couldn't believe I had to meet the most handsome man I've ever seen when I felt so high and so unattractive at the same time. He did not move his arm away, but he seemed so concentrated in his poetry, I couldn't decide whether he knew I was making a pass at him or not. And damn it, I had to leave. So I got up, still blushing ridiculously intensely, and left the train.

I turned around to check him out one last time.

He was staring at me. And I smiled lustfully. And he smiled back. And then I never saw him again.

Note to self: next time, give phone number. WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU?