Accidental
This morning, as I was jiggling my fork around in our toaster, two things occurred to me: 1) at least someone would find me fairly quickly, and 2) I cannot be the girl who moved all the way to Paris only to be killed by a toaster.
I mean, if I died, you would eventually think to ask how, right? And Nick is a lousy liar, and probably wouldn't even try, and so the whole stupid truth would be out there: we got this tiny little loaf of bread that doesn't pop up over the sides of the toaster, and I don't know where to get those neat wooden toast-tong thingies my parents have, and I was too lazy to unplug the stupid machine (the plug being all of six inches away and completely accessible), so....
Toast with jam has a wonderful way of making you realize that you've been overly morbid, but the fact remains that if I do have to have a tragic accident here, I at least want it to be a cool one--like, say, falling off of the Eiffel Tower.
This brings me to my new fitness plan.
The way I see it, I have about fifteen more pounds that I would like to see gone--twenty, probably, what with the whole wedding thing. Unfortunately, this calculation was made in New York, where I had a gym. And a scale.
The French don't really do gyms, so I'm here with a few yoga DVD's and the promise of the alleged "French paradox" on my side, and I have to tell you, that is not really especially comforting. And, later, when I sit down to my habitual (but moderately-sized and carefully paced!) lunch of goat cheese on toast, I will feel even less clever.
I get why I'm supposed to be able to eat meat and rich dairy and bread all day, and the fact is that my eating habits are probably much healthier now than they were last month. But I've also got all these saved photos of wedding dresses on my laptop, and I'm not sure that eating beurre blanc at any pace--no matter how leisurely, and chased with whatever amount of red wine--is really going to work. And I can't help but think that it's a system that requires faith in order to work at all, like a roadrunner cartoon where you can do whatever you want--as long as you don't look down. Technically, without a scale, I can't look down, but I can want to, and that may be enough.
Not to mention...I found Pringles®, of all things, in our little corner grocery. And, as I have been known to tell others in an annoyingly wise tone, our vices follow us wherever we go. I've stopped nearly all snacking cold...for two weeks. Can I really say that I'm cured?
So here's the new deal: I'm thinking that I should head over to the Eiffel Tower (about a ten-minute walk) and climb it. Last I checked it cost about 3 euro, which is comparable to the daily rate at a Manhattan gym, except that I won't be paying for days that I don't use, because the Eiffel Tower doesn't have a membership fee (suckers!). I'll be coming out ahead.
An hour or so of stairs--with a view--should put my mind at ease, and raise my odds of a non-toaster-related death. So I like this plan, and I am going ahead with it.
Except, not today. Today is rainy and cold. Today is just a toast day.
I mean, if I died, you would eventually think to ask how, right? And Nick is a lousy liar, and probably wouldn't even try, and so the whole stupid truth would be out there: we got this tiny little loaf of bread that doesn't pop up over the sides of the toaster, and I don't know where to get those neat wooden toast-tong thingies my parents have, and I was too lazy to unplug the stupid machine (the plug being all of six inches away and completely accessible), so....
Toast with jam has a wonderful way of making you realize that you've been overly morbid, but the fact remains that if I do have to have a tragic accident here, I at least want it to be a cool one--like, say, falling off of the Eiffel Tower.
This brings me to my new fitness plan.
The way I see it, I have about fifteen more pounds that I would like to see gone--twenty, probably, what with the whole wedding thing. Unfortunately, this calculation was made in New York, where I had a gym. And a scale.
The French don't really do gyms, so I'm here with a few yoga DVD's and the promise of the alleged "French paradox" on my side, and I have to tell you, that is not really especially comforting. And, later, when I sit down to my habitual (but moderately-sized and carefully paced!) lunch of goat cheese on toast, I will feel even less clever.
I get why I'm supposed to be able to eat meat and rich dairy and bread all day, and the fact is that my eating habits are probably much healthier now than they were last month. But I've also got all these saved photos of wedding dresses on my laptop, and I'm not sure that eating beurre blanc at any pace--no matter how leisurely, and chased with whatever amount of red wine--is really going to work. And I can't help but think that it's a system that requires faith in order to work at all, like a roadrunner cartoon where you can do whatever you want--as long as you don't look down. Technically, without a scale, I can't look down, but I can want to, and that may be enough.
Not to mention...I found Pringles®, of all things, in our little corner grocery. And, as I have been known to tell others in an annoyingly wise tone, our vices follow us wherever we go. I've stopped nearly all snacking cold...for two weeks. Can I really say that I'm cured?
So here's the new deal: I'm thinking that I should head over to the Eiffel Tower (about a ten-minute walk) and climb it. Last I checked it cost about 3 euro, which is comparable to the daily rate at a Manhattan gym, except that I won't be paying for days that I don't use, because the Eiffel Tower doesn't have a membership fee (suckers!). I'll be coming out ahead.
An hour or so of stairs--with a view--should put my mind at ease, and raise my odds of a non-toaster-related death. So I like this plan, and I am going ahead with it.
Except, not today. Today is rainy and cold. Today is just a toast day.
posted by Caroline | 3/20/2007 08:07:00 AM
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