The Perv leaves

My pervy co-worker is leaving today, after a small office party. This is the man who 1° always makes terribly lewd jokes I don't understand in my general direction.
2° squeezes, strokes and squishels his female collegues as a jest.
3°once cornered me in an elevator and playfully grabbed my bottom.

Now he is going away for good.

"Slap him", says my boyfriend. "Let him get drunk at his own party, make bad jokes, and when he tries to touch you or anyone else, slap him."

"Throw a drink on him."

"Tell him his behaviour is unacceptable."

I think I will talk to him. Tell him it's not funny when you don't understand the language perfectly. That it's awkward when you're an intern and he works there. And more than that, that touching people without their consent is appalling behaviour.

My French colleague told me with a Gallic shrug: "Let's hope for him he never works in America."

Yes indeed.

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.

Saturday morning

You know what's amazing about France? Yeah, you already know. The food.
I am not a great cook. I can bake (but usually at the expense of the entire kitchen which resembles a battlefield), I use mixers and frothers but am still baffled by icing (why, oh why, does mine always look like pharmaceutical scalp cream? My poor cupcakes need no scalp cream). But who needs any skillz when you have great produce?

Every morning, I run up to the market place and buy five euros worth of produce. As a vegetarian, I eat a lot of starch too, but vegetables and fruit are the core of meals. The salespeople know my tastes and will usually coax me to taste, or take home, the most luscious looking things, such as purple-tipped asparagus, mysterious artichokes and rosy peaches.

Go home. Eat.

To me part of my Frenchness is the pleasure I take in lovely food, eating a tomato in the street, grinning because it's dribbling down my face, while the sun covers the hill where I live.

Me, myself and I

Still feeling trembling and weird this morning. Nervousness. Fingers not doing what I command them to do.
I dreamt that X was no longer with his new girl and that he told me that he realized how depressed and lost he felt. His work was going better and he was bent on understanding himself better.
Wishful dreaming. Instead of hoping that X will become more self-assured, and discover his true path so he can stop pretending to himself, I will strive to hope only for myself. I love him, but this must stop.
Waking up without seeing him, without smiling up at him, was heart-breaking.
Oh well, I'm getting used to this feeling.

Making rules

I'm not a rules person. Heck, I'm not even a good resolutions person. I can't keep a promise to save my life.
I need some rules at the moment though, to get over myself:
1) Do not call or communicate with X unless entirely necessary.
2) Do not read emails or love notes anymore. Avoid entirely. I will think about what to do with them in six months or so.
3)Avoid thinking about things that will obviously hurt me without any results.
4)Do not bore friends and family to tears with rambling. Write blog or journal.
5)Enjoy the small moments in life as much as you can.