Big is beautiful? or The Misadventures of a French Gal in the US

"French Women Don't Get Fat"

Even though it annoys the hell out of me every time I walk into a Borders and see the long-legged, scarved fashionista being dragged by her caniche (that would be a poodle, the world's most disgusting dog. Please don't ask me why, and don't be offended) on the cover of the book, I have always been damn curious about it. And yet, for some reason - never even laid my hands on it.

Because it's a lie. A patent one.
Yes, Mireille Guiliano (who dares sharing the same first name that my bestie) I claim it high and loud: you are simply NOT telling the truth.
And thee should be ashamed of thee self.

Now that I am writing this blog entry I actually opened another window with the culprit's website. She is thin (duh!), sports a bob haircut à la Mireille Darc (Google her) and is obviously loaded. Former CEO of Clicquot, Inc. and spokesperson of the prestigious Champagne Veuve Clicquot for more than 20 years she is married to the president of the New York Institute of Technology. Not exactly the girl next door but who pretends none-the-less that she can help any woman out there.
Already sounds terribly flawed as a line of argumentation. At least to me.

So interested anyway (even if slightly annoyed) I click on "Read an excerpt". It's the book introduction, of course. The two-page spiel that is supposed to get you hooked and dying to buy the next 200 hundred or so in order to gain a little Frenchness that is apparently such a hot commodity on this side of the Atlantic (yes, it is. Think of all the French-labeled things out there...French dressing? French cut green beans? French vanilla? French fries? and so on. None of them are French, by the way. Sorry to be a killjoy.)
Our fabulous friend begins by talking about the infamous 'French paradox' (one eats like a pig and remains the size of a chick) and goes on by talking about her fabulous life and how the poor little thing she is is 'required to eat in restaurants about three hundred times a year' for twenty years, 'always a glass of wine or Champagne at [her] side'. Tough life indeed; I can immediately relate to her and so do you, right?
But then she says something that attracts my attention; she mentions, drama-queen way, that she 'suffered a catastrophe that [she] was totally unprepared for: a twenty pound catastrophe'.
OK, so now you are talking.......

And, sure enough, the end of the world happened when she was an exchange student in the US.
Here we are.

My personal 'catastrophe' is of such epic proportion that our delicate and sophisticate author could probably not stomach it: in the 8 years I lived over here I gained something close to 40 pounds. Typing this number is almost a surreal experience; even with the size 2 pants deeply buried in my closet I cannot imagine that I used to be so much lighter. I do feel a little bit bloated and uncomfortable in my skin but do not consider myself as overweight. I believe I have a womanly figure, rather on the plump side, sure, but you know, nothing out of hand.
The scary thing is - at 118 pounds I still thought the same.
That would be MY French paradox.

Thinking back on it I really cannot believe it. It's even hard for me to remember how I truly looked like. It's almost like thinking about another person. But every so often I come across a picture, a former dress or bra and then I grasp the extent of my 'transformation'. But - weirdly enough - never when I look in the mirror.

Why?!?!?!?

I thought about this matter many times, because whether you like it or not it's what women do. I wondered what it was about my gain weight that made it so easy to live with. And honestly - it's a rather difficult question. As a French woman in France I always ate a lot. I was known for my appetite, my solide coup de fourchette as we like to say; I was never one to quibble with my food. And I never exercised. EVER. After leaving high school and mandatory gym classes I never practiced any sport. Never ran. Never even pushed the doors of a gym*.
And yet I apparently had this model figure that I never appreciated. I never realized that my body was slim, fit and inside the limited boundaries of 'beauty standards'.
Sucks, huh?!?!?
When I first came to the US I was still feeling awkwardly self-conscious of my shape(s). But I quickly found out that others found it attractive. I had never been so courted in my life. I slowly started feeling good about myself, and show more of my body. It became a source of pride and pleasure and I often associate my first year in Connecticut with my birth as a true woman.

It felt exhilarating.
But it didn't last that long. After two years in Chicago, and meeting this RH guy who was to become my husband, I started piling on the pounds. And didn't stop. My mom - who was herself traumatized in her youth by nasty comments on her weight - even told me that I was getting fat. She was shocked. And so was I.
I do eat a lot, still. But I am trying to compensate my love for food (and booze, which I have to say is a new component of the whole puzzle) by - horror!!! - going to the gym on a very regular basis. I ran two 5K this year, and am planning on getting ready for a half-marathon next Fall. I lift weights, do crunches, squats and curls. Even push-ups. A good little soldier, not at all a proper French lady who is supposed to magically keep her figure, 'without a sweat'.

But I still cannot keep the damn kilos away.
So is it the aging, the bad influence of my American companion, the lack of hormonal balance, the products of a wicked food industry that adds corn syrup to everything and anything or the effect of climate change?!? Maybe my ways have just become sluggish, and wheels too often replace my once strong and powerful legs... I am not really sure, and it doesn't really matter. Today I am wearing tweed shorts and sexy tights, and I feel good about myself. Probably the most important feeling in the world.

And I closed down the Mireille window, deciding to forgive her for her lies and keep going my ways.
Thanks anyway.


________________________
* I have to say here that this is not entirely true; I used to swim quite often and almost daily when I was writing my master's thesis in 2000. Doing backstroke for an hour or so was my way of relaxing and trying to put my ideas in order; something bout the breathing.... This discipline helped me to write my 100+ pages in three months, get my degree with honors and be published in academic journals. Not bad I guess.