Just how loud could those ducks have been, you say?
How ridiculously, impossibly loud?
The little fat, feathered chieurs were at it again. Shot from my window:
(on my cell phone - but the audio speaks for itself)
I rest my case. But still love my boat.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Thursday, February 04, 2010
"Oh. Mon. Dieu. Becky. Regarde son cul..."
The rumours are true. I had heard a lot of things about French gyms/the French gym-going population. So far belonging to a gym has not been a disappointment.
The anthropological study began in the changing room.
I'm not particularly shy, but the French have fewer cultural boundaries about staring, and apparently this rule still applies without clothes.
Like a boring remake of the opening scene of Carrie, I found myself in a sea of skinny white French women. They all have one distinguishing feature. Apologies in advance, but I don't know else to put this...They all have Really. Flat. Asses.
A North American friend had mentioned this, but I didn't believe it until I saw it with my own scornful eyes.
I spent 30 seconds enjoying a newly-found, round-bum superiority complex. But then, a Twilight Zone-esque realisation: In the land of flat-assed woman, she with the curves is the freak (or the pig under the operating mask, as it were).
Humbled, I limp over to the cardio machines, subtly trying to make my T shirt into a dress.
Now, the configuration of the cardio room must be inspired by an Eastern German psychological experiment. The ellipticals (dominated by women) are lined up so that you are head-to-head with a line of treadmills (dominated by soft-bellied men)
For 45 minutes or more, you can elliptical-run through the air, hurtling faster and faster toward a balding Frenchman. Not exactly as pleasant as watching TV, but it's definitely motivating. (Keep running, chubbykins, this could be you...)
I take my place in the trenches of the sweaty, never-ending war of the sexes.
Luckily, some of the treadmills face the dance room.
I slot on my headphones and watch the cardio boxing class. Those impossibly thin, un-bummed women are now screaming and punching the air, more or less in synch. It's just as hilarious as you could imagine.
Hitting a fast pace on the treadmill, beating the flubby cadre next to me, my gym ego gets a boost. Comparatively freakish ass, maybe. But look at me! I can Run and Run and Run.
But just then, my iPod takes a nosedive off the shelf, flying on the treadmill carpet into the wall.
In what may be the first sign of budding maternal instinct, I dive after my iPod, falling onto the treadmill, and crashing onto the floor.
Quietly squeaking with pain, I pick up my iPod, get back on the treadmill, and notice that noone has even flinched at the sight of the sweaty blonde flying into a wall.
Well, apparently that doesn't just happen in movies.
Please stop calling me Bridget Jones, though. Really.
The anthropological study began in the changing room.
I'm not particularly shy, but the French have fewer cultural boundaries about staring, and apparently this rule still applies without clothes.
Like a boring remake of the opening scene of Carrie, I found myself in a sea of skinny white French women. They all have one distinguishing feature. Apologies in advance, but I don't know else to put this...They all have Really. Flat. Asses.
A North American friend had mentioned this, but I didn't believe it until I saw it with my own scornful eyes.
I spent 30 seconds enjoying a newly-found, round-bum superiority complex. But then, a Twilight Zone-esque realisation: In the land of flat-assed woman, she with the curves is the freak (or the pig under the operating mask, as it were).
Humbled, I limp over to the cardio machines, subtly trying to make my T shirt into a dress.
Now, the configuration of the cardio room must be inspired by an Eastern German psychological experiment. The ellipticals (dominated by women) are lined up so that you are head-to-head with a line of treadmills (dominated by soft-bellied men)
For 45 minutes or more, you can elliptical-run through the air, hurtling faster and faster toward a balding Frenchman. Not exactly as pleasant as watching TV, but it's definitely motivating. (Keep running, chubbykins, this could be you...)
I take my place in the trenches of the sweaty, never-ending war of the sexes.
Luckily, some of the treadmills face the dance room.
I slot on my headphones and watch the cardio boxing class. Those impossibly thin, un-bummed women are now screaming and punching the air, more or less in synch. It's just as hilarious as you could imagine.
Hitting a fast pace on the treadmill, beating the flubby cadre next to me, my gym ego gets a boost. Comparatively freakish ass, maybe. But look at me! I can Run and Run and Run.
But just then, my iPod takes a nosedive off the shelf, flying on the treadmill carpet into the wall.
In what may be the first sign of budding maternal instinct, I dive after my iPod, falling onto the treadmill, and crashing onto the floor.
Quietly squeaking with pain, I pick up my iPod, get back on the treadmill, and notice that noone has even flinched at the sight of the sweaty blonde flying into a wall.
Well, apparently that doesn't just happen in movies.
Please stop calling me Bridget Jones, though. Really.
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