When Your Fesses Take Over Your Life

I have a problem.

It's my fesses. My buttocks, ass, popotin, plut-plut, take your pick.  It's taking over my life.

I come from a family of bubble butts and have generally learned to accept my fate, but this my friends, this is getting out of hand.

Before officially declaring un gros problème, I consulted Mopain, just to make sure I wasn't have some silly girlish complex.

WARNING: Never ask a Frenchman a question about fat if you don't want the bitter truth.

Me: Babe, I get this feeling that my fesses have gotten bigger. Am I being silly or do you think so too?

Mopain: Oh yeah, totally. I'd say, like 25% bigger probably.

Me: **disbelief**  .... WHAT? Not 25%!

Mopain: (backpedaling), well, no not 25%, but probably like 20%.

Me: WHAT?!!

Mopain: (realizing that he is in deep merde) Don't listen to me! I'm not a numbers guy!

Side note: Mopain is paid to deal with numbers EVERY DAY OF HIS LIFE. 


In another country, my fesses would perhaps be considered an attribute - something to work for; but in France, it's just taking up valuable real estate. On the bus, in the metro, standing in line. My fesses need another 5 inches to be comfortable. Désolée toute le monde.  Poussez-vous.

On top of that, it's impossible to fit into tiny French clothing.  If I can get the pants over my hips, thighs and fesses, it's gigantic at the waist...if it fits my waist, there's no way I can pull the dress down over my gigantic popotin.

Pas génial. 

I've taken to American and British-made A-line skirts as I work to find a solution.

Is it the secretary spread? Is it age? It is all the croissants? What about the biking? All the walking? The 100 bazillion stairs I take on a regular basis? What will happen if/when I have a child and my hips WIDEN? Will I have to start wearing muumuus?  Au secours.

Just last weekend I was shopping for a nice dress for an event, and as a last ditch effort,  I walked into BCBG Max Azria, hoping to find something on the sales rack. When a sales person came up to me to see how I was doing, I told him that the dresses were pretty, but that they were all size small- not workable for my fesses.  He said not to worry, this is a marque Américaine, the small there is like a medium or a large here in Paris!

Thanks man. Thanks a lot.

As much as I love France, my body doesn't fit here. I'm not alone; the majority of my average-built American friends buy their clothes on trips back home. Some even have trouble buying shoes. And yet. pfffffffft. It's so irritating.

What is an average-sized American girl in Paris to do? My American friends tell me to embrace it. My French friends direct me to their dietician, sympathizing and providing encouragement that I just need to "faire attention". Be careful.

So voilà. For today, I'm going to take my fesses for a walk, and maybe try to find a miracle seamstress along the way.

Grasse Matinée

I had big plans to make big plans for Friday night. I would call a copine, we would get margaritas or kir or some other girly cocktail and talk, talk, talk about our holiday vacations. Then it would be getting late and we would be getting hungry, so we would go find yummy food and order une bouteille de vin and talk, talk, talk some more until it was time to call cabs and fall into bed.  Copain had man-plans with Chinois (TV, beer, etc), so it was the perfect night for me to have girl-plans. 

Ethel

I became suspicious one day as I put on makeup in my teeny bathroom and saw a glimmer in the mirror.  My suspicion grew when I was washing my hands at work and it caught my eye again. I tossed it off as a leftover blond highlight from September 2010. And then, it reared its ugly head...

This Christmas, Santa gave me A GRAY HAIR.

Just one. gray. hair. 

He obviously did not get my memo about bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. (preferably in brown paper packages tied up with strings...) Gray hairs aren't one of my favorite things... (is bursting into songs from musicals a sign of old age?)

a hem. As I was saying...a gray hair. on my head. in my bangs, to be precise. As soon as the reality of it all struck, I called down the hall, " MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!". She came running (probably worried I had fallen in the toilet or burned myself with a curling iron). I showed her Santa's version of coal for adults. And then, she laughed her buttocks off at me.  My dad heard her laughing and came to see what the fuss was all about. Then he started laughing his buttocks off.

Then Copain told me that I need to start dying my hair again.

I still refuse to spend 100 euros every three months to cover just one gray hair. Ethel will be cleverly hidden under my other, melanin-rich hairs.  And until Ethel makes friends, that is how things will remain. 

In other news, I have switched to an anti-wrinkle day cream as a complement to my anti-wrinkle night cream. 

Perks at the Pompidou

I'm not sure if I've told you this before, but people tend to think I look much younger than I actually am.  While I know that I shouldn't complain (I'm saving so much in wrinkle cream!), it can actually work against me in many arenas (work, authority etc). Because of this phenomenon, I tend to do what I can to look less like 23 and more like 29, but it's rough.  It's especially rough on the weekend when I just can't make an effort to dress up.

Thankfully, last weekend this worked in my favor when the guy at the Pompidou ticket office would not believe that I wasn't over 25.

Don't believe me? Here's proof:

General entry is 12 Euros - students get in for 9 Euros.  Yep, that's me, the 25 year-old.

La Bataille!

I've never been one of those women who freaked about wrinkles or gray hair or ....whatever. But now I know why:  I didn't have any to worry about.

This my friends is no longer the case! 

Is it age? ( I'm not even 30 yet!)

It is stress? (possible...)

Though age and stress may be factors in the catastrophe that is now my face, I am convinced the real culprit is PARIS. More specifically WINTER in PARIS. 

When I look in the mirror in the morning (the horror, the horror!), this is what I see:

- dark circles under my (squinty, tired) eyes

- blotchy skin (red, pink, yellow, beige..whaaaa???)

- chapped lips

- one smile line on the left side of my face (I'll let this slide, it must mean I'm a happy person)

- AND the beginning of wrinkles under my eyes!!!

DUDE!

This was not the case in Cannes! This was not the case in Toulouse - even in the winter! But Paris - Paris is just doing a number on my visage.

I splash cold water on my face in the morning, hoping some color will come into my cheeks. I put in moisturizing eye drops so that my eyes are less squinty and I can put in my contacts. Sephora has become my new best friend as I have had to invest in additional concealer and face makeup just so that I resemble someone who is alive. It's not a pretty picture, I'm telling you.

My friend C has taken to faux tanning but I just can't bring myself to do it (I wear mineral spf 30 everyday - wouldn't that be counter productive??)

What's a fille to do?  Paris is slowly but surely winning this battle...and I need a counter attack!

help. please?