Despite the fact that my blog title implies my affection and devotion to yoga, carrot-crunching, and chaturanga-kicking, I have yet to do a single downward dog since being here. Instead I have been doggedly running myself rampant by trying to race avalanches and ensuring there are clean dishes on the table. In my imaginations (yes, I need more imagination than the average human being), I had brilliant ideas of grandeuar…making my Kundalini rise as the sun sets over the peaks of snow-capped mountains out the window, doing mind-altering yoga classes for all the locals, and sailing through the mountains like a gazelle with only the wind in my hair. I saw dancing through my head, analogies for various yoga postures and how they related to the stages of our of lives, I saw a line of svelte French supermodels asking me what MY secret was to health, beauty, and the pursuit of happiness… to which I would shake my head and reply, “Je Parle Francais un petit peu. Pardon!” Others probably have visions of French supermodels for other reasons, and they should keep clinging to all of their hopes and dreams. However, mine is a fantasy that couldn’t come true even if my last visit for Botox hadn’t turned into an acupuncture session because the needle got stuck in my tightly furrowed brow, and if my last visit to the dentist wasn’t for the permanent installation of a shiny new grille.
Someone gave me a book, “French Women Don’t Get Fat” (along with a size XL pair of long underwear) prior to my trip, and I devoured it about 250+ delicious times before I left the States. I took notes like it was a delicious college class, and was sure to get all my delicious facts straight before I got over here. I knew which delicious pastries to avoid, I knew how to walk deliciously everywhere I went, and how to socialize with a delicious glass of wine in your hand without drinking it down in a flabbergasted-with-deliciousness craze. However, upon being here, I am realizing that the next book begging to be written is “Chalet Girls DO Get Fat”. Of course, it would be a guide for the many cream-serving, butter and lard-spooning, chocolate-pouring chalet girls who come after me, as I have the metabolism of a boweevil (I’m sure they have exceptional metabolisms, cause what bug doesn’t!?) and any time I would use the word “fat”, it’s with a capital”ph” for all intensive purposes.
I know everyone thought this was going to be some sort of healthy cooking blog, some recipe guide from my guru: Weight Watchers, complete with points and pointers. But alas, it’s really just a confession that our refrigerator here is full of cheese, bread, and chocolate. I thought that was all just medieval folklore about the French, just as incorrectly as “they” make Americans and McDonalds seem like a married couple (ok, wait, so that is not a myth at all). I have given into and fallen prey to the long-standing beliefs and here I am making Roquefort-tastrophe Onion Soup.
While, my heart throbs to serve kale chips and carrots at every meal, and I do when it’s just the three of us dining and watching Seinfeld or French sitcoms in front of the flat screen; when we entertain however, which is quite often, we are serving decadence to the nines with goat cheese-stuffed eggplant, Samosas, chocolate-covered fruit and walnut bark, and any thing else you can cook that makes a squeak when it cooks because of the extra fat calories that are trying to squeeze their way in. Kale smoothie, anyone? Want to stay late and we can juice some cucumbers? I know this really awesome Apple Cider Vinegar foot soak we can use to detox… I try to disguise the vegetables into as many forms as vegetarianly possible, but it’s hopeless. I have no choice but to dine with them, and I am cooking things I physically cringe as I allow them to make their nest in my blood vessels.
You’re probably thinking to yourself that I need to get over it, stop being a pyschotic American who only shops “local” and buys “organic” and just EAT IT UP. Live it up. Follow Julie Roberts’ example in Eat. Pray. Love. and just upgrade to a bigger size in jeans. Or better yet, follow Julia Childs’ path and then just get an XL burlap sack to cover a multitude of sins. Sleep when you’re dead, eat healthy later, and drink water TOMORROW.
I will eventually figure out if I should take that advice, but in the meantime I am going to employ the methods for counteracting insanity that were tried and true during my college days. I drank endless amounts of coffee, tea, and water and ate nothing but salad, apples, and popcorn. It’s a beautiful solution. I think my thighs will thank me.
In all seriousness….we all know the keys to health and happiness are to ALWAYS: Think healthy thoughts. Envision what you want and shoot for nothing less. Healthy lungs, healthy heart, rock hard abs…it’s ALL right at your fingertips. Look in the mirror and smile at your ever-expanding waist line and then go for a 2 hour run. Eat to eat, move to move, find fresh foods and make them your best friend, and don’t let people force their ideals upon you. Even your protein powder buddies are screwy in the head from too many chemicals. Listen to your body and it’s own, inner judgement.
I think I can do all of this; I suppose today’s blog is more of just a confession at how I, Emily the Kale-Crunching-Chronically-Careful Health Creature is thus far failing miserably and it involves words like “creme de la crem”, oh “CRAP, I just ate more chocolate”, and “creme de la any old crem”. Of course while the self-bashing ensues, I am going to simultaneously hug and reassure myself that I am still just settling into a routine, and I have really only woken up on time ONCE, as we all know. Wow, I think I just kissed and made up with myself and we’re still just as in love as ever.
If you instead choose stress as a response to making poor choices, it alone is enough weight to sink a battle ship. I guess we shall find out more what it looks like as we become a plastic surgeon’s worst nightmare…because we’re already so darn perfect inside and out!
Wish me luck, a clear conscience, and of course most importantly –clear skin!
Careening Creatively away from Croissants,
— Emily —