I'm skinnier than pregnant chics.

I was shopping.


Correction: I was trying to shop.

Realization: "Daaamn, I've gained some weight since I moved to France!"

I am now convinced that my fatness is a subconscious revolt against the French skinniness that surrounds me. In a nation of size 4 women, these frogs need a little size 16 to tip the scale back over into some degree of normalcy.

No. Wait. Who am I kidding here?

For the past 2 years being chubby has been my personal “fuck you” to the French.
As if by the width of my ass alone I could somehow say to the entire nation: “That’s right, I’m American. I take up a whooooole lotta space!”. Funny the things you cling to when you’re far away from home.

I have been clinging to my fat.

Wait. Where were we…oh yes.

Shopping:
In France all my shopping trips begin and end the exact same way. I go into the store giddy with desire, only to leave the store with a headache and a heart full of broken dreams approximately 22 minutes later. That's right: TWENTY TWO MINUTES.

Today’s shopping expedition started off no differently than the others. I spent 10 minutes looking through the “women’s” section, 8 minutes looking through the “Big sizes” section, then with my head lowered in shame, I slink off towards ----the maternity section.

That’s right. In France, I’m so fucking fat that they figure I MUST be knocked up.

But today the strangest thing occurred to me as I sorted through the rows and rows of roomy cotton tunics, and baby blue “it’s a boy” t-shirts. As I slowly looked around at my fellow shoppers I realized that in the maternity clothing section- I'm already skinny!

I then grabbed two tent-like cotton tunics from the nearest clearance rack and headed for the check out line.

I made it to my car with 2 minutes to spare.