Crazy American

I took a look at the scale last week and it was NOT GOOD. Like Oh-dear-god-how-did-that-happen NOT GOOD.

Was it an apero en trop? A bit too many peanut M&Ms from the work vending machine? Are my healthy muffins not really healthy? dude.

I went back to Mireille Guiliano's advice and decided to "faire attention" to what I was eating (easier said than done when your colleague offers you an almond financier! - and then I decided that I needed to put a little American fire under my derrière and actually exercise. At 10:30 on Saturday morning I was up and at 'em, gulped down my magic sève de bouleau, put on some stretchy pants and power-walked to my neighborhood park.  

The park was buzzing with parents, children, ping-pong players and the standard homeless guys sipping their mid-morning beers. Then there was me - the crazy American, doing laps, stopping at the one bird-poop free park bench for push-ups and squats, jammin' to my hip hop mix circa 2003. Don't worry, I wore sunglasses and kept my head down.

I could hardly get up (or down) the stairs of our apartment building on Sunday - my thighs hadn't made any effort besides my daily Velib ride to work in months, and I could feel the burn BIG TIME. I *may* have taken a Doliprane to ease the pain. Despite the crippling effects of my park session, it did feel good to exercise and to feel my muscles again. I wish I could just be 100% française and therefore, immune to calories and the salle de sport, but alas, I am American, rien à faire. 

I could hardly bike to work today, but that just means it's working right?