The Only Times You’ll See A French Girl Run
The mythical French girl is impossibly thin, eats cheese every day and has never set foot in a gym. She claims her favorite sport is competitive (wine) glass lifting, from table to mouth and mouth to table.
In truth, she mocks jocks and gym rats relentlessly. She wears her lack of commitment to fitness like a badge of honor. And yes, she likely eats cheese every day and remains reasonably svelte. Frankly, she pisses us off. Just a little bit.
Yet, she tries to escape work or home twice a week at least to visit - incognito of course - the new Yoga studio or Aquabike facility in her neighborhood. Every fitness outing will require painful amounts of prep, pep talks (from herself to herself), threats... Her mission will abort many times, always with a good excuse: “I’ll go tomorrow” “I’m coming down with something” “Emilie got dumped and she’ll pitch herself into the Seine if I don’t spend the evening with her” “I’ll forego dinner. Or maybe just have a (chocolate) yogurt.”
The one thing you’ll never see her do, however, is run.
Unless of course…
Zara is having a sale.
Rumor has it the fantastic bakery down the street is down to one croissant.
During a walk in Bois de Boulogne, she hears ruffles in a nearby bush. It’s either a rabid beast or a perv'. Either way, she doesn’t want to stick around to find out.
Pierre Hermé is releasing a divine new collection of macarons.
Happy hour ends in ten minutes.
She’s out of Nutella and the grocery store closes in five.
She’s halfway down the stairs to the metro platform when she hears her train arrive. The doors open, people get off, people get on. She knows she has about ten seconds to get on it, lest she’ll have to wait another three horrid minutes before the next train. Pas possible.
Zara is having a sale. (in case you didn’t hear me the first time)
She ate her weight in foie gras and read somewhere (Marie Claire surely) that jogging in the freezing cold for fifty blocks is the best calorie burner. You catch her on her second block. She’ll be over it by the third and you’ll find her sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette and vowing to never, ever eat foie gras again. A mere five days later, she will gleefully accept a generous serving of foie gras at Marion’s party. Can’t say no to anything from Fauchon.
She’s five years old.