life's too short for a six-pack
perfect sounds like too much hard work
I started working out again a couple of weeks ago; with regular jogs of a decent length, and workout sessions at the local park.
It’s taken forever to get back into it since moving to glorious, delicious France. I was groping for motivation, hanging out for the boy to threaten an affair or for a minor, but life-changing health scare.
Turns out all I needed was a buddy to work out with. Faced with the potential of looking like a dick for cancelling, I have a renewed interest in all things sweaty, painful and unladylike.
Of course, my diet has snuck into the conversation.
My *French* diet, that is, which includes fabulous cheese, incredible breads and undeniable desserts. And for the record; I’m totally cool with this arrangement. I LOVE the way I eat here.
But; my pants, which have begun to hug my figure with a new fervour, might have something to say about it.
hate london, hate life?
I want to be perfect.
Sometimes I really need to be.
But I, like every other person on the planet, can’t do it. Not one of us is capable of achieving ‘perfect’.
So it makes real sense that we spend so much time trying to get there, right? Ha. No.
like strangers watching you when you sleep? travel solo!
I took a deep breath. Absorbed the charred brown brick structures towering in front of me, scanned across the bruised grey-black sky for any sign of the sun, and choked in the combined exhaust cloud surrounding the five idling black cabs lined up to whisk the wealthier-than-me into town.
And then, like a grizzly child awake past their bed time, I cried. I let fat tears rush down my face unchecked, unable to mop up for fear of my bags being lifted the moment I let them go.
I stood there, amongst the freshly flown visitors streaming out of Heathrow, and I wept.
life on mars: half a year in japan
Jolted out of my slumber by a change in the tracks, I wrenched an eye open.
Two hours into my five and a half hour train journey, I’d dropped off mid-paragraph, leaving my book to fall to the floor.
I was slumped in my seat, spine at a playful angle.
Hurtling backwards towards my destination, forced to sit opposite a fellow passenger, intimately close, with our legs knitted together under the wee table.
And he was watching me. Bald head old man was watching me.
Through a sticky contact-lensed retina, I clocked his eyes on me, monitoring my sleepy movements, and looking quite comfortable with it, almost bored, as if he was 90 minutes into a bad movie he’d seen before.
living that yogi life
There is one park, where residents walk and run around a sprung track, counter-clockwise. You’re not supposed to go the other way.
There are several arcades, with squealing skill testers stuffed full of plush cartoon characters or sweet treats. The deeper you go, the darker it gets, with grandmas and thin men slumped in front of slot machines.
The sound is deafening at first, but you get used to it.
why french restaurants are the best in the world
Yoga is one of those things I’ve always said I’d like to do, one of those things that would probably be really good for me if I could only just get myself motivated enough to put on some stretchy pants and lie on the floor.
Naturally, I blame the universe.
There aren’t any yoga classes near me. All the yoga apps on my phone aren’t good enough. The DVD I bought is in French, and there’s a weird man in it and he’s wearing a very unsettling crop top.
These weren’t just ‘nice restaurants’ with ‘good food’ – this was French cuisine, daaahhhling, dished up like no big deal. We devoured stunning three course lunches down the road from McDonald’s, supped five course feasts on the side of the highway – dying a delicious glutinous death in this new world of foie gras, pig feet, entrecôte steaks as big as our heads and the kind of cheese that could start a war.