parc monceau

The French outlook on one's appearance is one of the many Parisian idiosyncrasies that Adam Gopnik talks about in Paris To The Moon. Parisians dress very well, all the time. It's not like in America where we clean up for special occasions but don't mind going to the grocery store in our sweats; rather, one feels as though all of Paris is sizing you up the second you step out of your apartment. I didn't really understand why until I got here, but now, I wouldn't dream of getting on the Metro without accessorizing properly - hell, I'm worried about having dinner with my host family wearing my yoga pants.

The only similar feeling that I can come up with is exercising at Stanford, especially going around campus loop or lake lag. Peer pressure to exercise is significant at Stanford, because everyone works out every day, managing to squeeze it in at all hours of the day and night. You keep jogging, even when feel like you'd rather keel over, because you're terrified of rounding the corner and seeing "x" running in your direction (where "x" is your ex-boyfriend, your TA, your arch nemesis, that bitchy girl in your IHUM section who always looks really put together, etc). Such encounters happen more often than you'd think.

Trying my best to look Parisian has had some unfortunate consequences, mostly foot-related. I've been waking up in the morning with achy feet - I think I put too much emphasis on the balls of my feet when I walk - and come home often with blisters, but what is there to do? My mom suggested that I just wear my running shoes to class and then change when I get there, but see, it's not about running into anyone I know and being underdressed - it's every Parisian I run into, period.

I haven't quite given up cute shoes, but I have given up walking to class. However, I'm fairly certain that the constant walking (along with chain smoking and heavy coffee drinking) is what keeps French women skinny despite eating fromage and baguettes with every meal, so to replace the activity, I've taken up jogging again. Today, going around the Parc Monceau loop, I kept encountering a French woman in a red jumpsuit jogging in the opposite direction (notable because she was the only female jogger I saw - the others were all men, and seemed to be all training for marathons). On my last loop, I rounded the corner and saw her, hands on hips, walking - though the second she saw me, she jumped a little and started jogging again.

I'm not going to lie: after experiencing two weeks of peer pressure from the French, it felt great giving out a little of my own.