Choose Your Classes Wisely

I may only be home for three weeks, but I've made it my business to shave off the extra five pounds of cheese, croissants, bread butter and bacon I put on it France while I'm here. This means: exercise classes with my mom! Zumba! Body Jam! Spin Class! And several other mildly entertaining and vastly embarrassing endeavors in which you shake and shimmy surrounded by 60 something year old saggy women in hot pink sports bras. This was suiting me all right, actually, and combined with lunch at the health food store buffet every day, I've all ready lost two of the five.

Yesterday, however, I got the afternoon schedule wrong and ended up in body combat: Surrounded by scary, screaming, jumping, flying and kicking muscly sweaty Hawaiian guys. The instructor was the muscly-ist and loudest of all; the sweat was fountaining off him as he instructed us to kill imaginary pirates and ninjas with elbow jabs, back kicks, and the most common, knee-to-face plants. I lasted 45 minutes of the hour class before I felt like I'd burst an artery in my brain. Today I feel like I've been hit by a bus. But now I have ROCK HARD PIRATE KILLING ABS YYYEEEEAAAHHHH!!!!

The Handsome Hero

So I cut TMI's hair yesterday. -Which was HUGE MISTAKE because I did a weirdly fabulous job and now he's too handsome to look at with out being intimidated out of the room and under the bed covers.

That evening, I took my scarily handsome guy to Lazer-tag with some of my coworkers at the cafe. It was my first time and I was the only girl of like, 20 big burly guys; rolling around in a very dangerous plywood playground in pitch black, sliding, jumping, and bashing head-on into walls with a plastic lazer gun. I was run over a few times and even hit in the face by someone's gun at some point. While for the other players it was a game, for me it was 4 hours of straight-up survival. I'm small and delicate and can only handle getting smacked down by big sweaty guys so many times. I came up at the bottom of the score board each round with TMI always gracing the top, SOMEHOW. I was, thankfully, mildly rad at the hide and seek round, as a big guy can scarcely hide and escape into the shadows like a little lady.

All the same at the end of the whole shebang my feet were hurting, my back was hurting, MY FACE was hurting, and I was convinced I was, and am, an old lady on the arm of a drop-dead gorgeous Lazer-tag hero. Blah.

How Not to Charm a Lady

Today I went for a run with a guy in the the French wild. He showed me an ancient sheep herder dwelling and farted loudly while we were both inside. I made like it was fine but was of course totally appalled. We ran up over a ridge and into a clearing where I bounded and rolled in the grass pretending to be a goat. Other times, while we jogged together between the trees, I pretended we were Mammoth Hunters on the great hunt. I kept most of this to myself and tried to do my bounding in secret. It's hard for me to be living in the city center when I come from Hawaii's mountains.

The French guy was Jonas and the French Wild was called Parc de la Combe a la Serpent.

Evading the Fat Fate

Last Sunday I placed a bet that I would force myself to the pool EVERY SINGLE MORNING and take a photo as evidence. I did it because frankly I'm getting fatter than ever and am running out of interventional ideas. So, yesterday morning, just like the one before and the one before that, I scooted on Berlioz through town and through the heat to the pool in Grissels- turns out you don't need to wear a swim cap there, so I find it worth the scoot.

Last time, I was informed that on Wednesdays the pool didn't open until 3, so I scooted back. The day before, I was informed that on Tuesdays it closed at 1:30. Dang! So yet again scooted back. (and then enjoyed some french cheese and wine in the evening.) Merde! This morning, I got into the locker rooms, put my suit on, and then my period started. Seriously. Scooted home with some tissues stuffed in my panties. What gives, universe???

me n' Berlioz tearing it up

Aller Dijon, Aller!

Tonight was the night to pull out the red dress and follow a pack of testosterone charged males to the local spots bar and show our support for team Dijon. I never wear red; but being told to do so I obediently dawned a saucy little number and some black heels to brave the cobblestone streets; and learned one valuable lesson. Watching sports on tv is dumb.

After having a beer spilled on my shoe and feeling that I had payed my social duty as a friend, I marched back to my beloved French pad early, enduring many rowdy shouts from sports enthusiasts on my way home.

The news this week is that I am 77% sure that I am moving to Paris for fashion school in September. Having worked as a model in my teenage years and just recently earned a degree in Art History and Digital Illustration, I think it might be the perfect fusion of my interests and the correct step forward. It might be. It might also be a colossal disaster, but I'm willing to undergo a certain degree of embarrassment for adventure. It's also expensive! So it's too soon for the last three percentiles.

And tomorrow I'm portraying the leading lady (yes, only because I'm the only available lady) in a short, independent French film. I'm both excited and devastated because I have some serious problems with getting up early. It's for an annual film festival in which small film crews assemble and draw genres form a hat and have 48 hours to shoot, edit, and present an 8 minute film to a jury. We pulled action/thriller. I was secretly wishing for Romance, but looks like tomorrow I'll probably be running and screaming. (but in French, so I'm not complaining)

So with all that under the belt I'm going to try and call it an early night; so the red dress goes back in the closet and I'm taking some sleeping pills; cuz from what I can tell the Dijonaise are planning on honking their car horns and singing our city's name all through the night.