Goodbye Glorious Globo Gym: The Horrors of Fitness Feminine

So this concept called 'the lady gym' seems to be a big fad here in French fry country.

"Salle de sport pour femme EXCLUSIVEMENT!" one ad reads.

"Fitness 100% Femmes" says another.

As if my workout experience will be significantly improved by removing all the sexy shirtless men with raging biceps and instead replacing them with post-labor moms and yoga freaks. But I decide to try it out anyway, because the goal of my second year here in France is to immerse myself into the culture, to see life through the eyes of les gens français (and I found a Groupon deal for a one month membership trial).

So the gym's called Lady City. Okay, I get it. Ladies in the ville can get their groove on too! With its location in the city centre, I figured the establishment would be no LifeTime Fitness or anything, but I tend to only stick to the treadmill and freeweights anyway so a small gym would suffice. Even better, google maps says it's only 10 minutes to walk there from my apartment, meaning I can easily reincorporate working out into my daily schedule. This is turning out to be the best idea ever!!!!!!!

And then I remember that I'm in France.

My trip begins with a humiliating 10 minute hussle through the city streets in which every passerby, men and women alike, shot me the death stare for sporting tennis shoes out in public (Imagine if I had dared to wear sweatpants!!). I finally arrive, and the women at the desk is all but excited to see a new face. Apparently as an interested client you cannot just walk in and sign up, but rather have to take a rendevous, preferably set for weeks later. Insisting that I am only free to sign up now, the women rolls her eyes and inputs my information, appalled that I would dare take two whole precious minutes of her time (and wearing sneakers at that!)

Having passed level 1 (judgement on the streets) and level 2 (evil receptionist), I proceed to check out the gym I just signed my life away to for the next 30 days. The room before me, slightly bigger than my apartment flat, contains 8 elipticals and 4 bikes, above which hang two small tvs playing MTV's finest.

Features Not Included: treadmills.

Also no towels. Not even a water fountain, as if the idea of people possibly sweating hadn't occured to them.  But maybe French women don't sweat. I peak around to the "salle de musculation" in case they simply hide away their running clients, but no. Treadmills must not be lady-like enough. I DO look very much forward to sharing the ONE set of dumbells, the weight of both not even reaching 10kg. And with the 7 pretty machines for arm and leg toning, none of which have the ability to add weight, it seems that my dream of achieving the strength of an 8-year-old girl can finally come true!

I did like the fact that the place wasn't crowded, with only two other girls my age occupying the cardio machines. I took the eliptical farthest away from the TV and tried to concentrate on my own pace, but I couldn't help but notice just how little effort my fellow meufs put into their workouts. To paint a picture on their exertion, the one had her curls down to her butt (none of which moved), and the other had on those massive Dr. Dre headphones. Neither wore a sports bra (you don't have to be a perv to notice when shes got an extra bounce there). Were their heart rates even going up? In college I witnessed my fair share of sorority-type stringbeans hogging up the good machines, flipping through Cosmo and occasionally increasing the speed to 3mph. But those girls didn't WANT to look tired, especially if so&so from Sigma Epsilon might walk by. Here, though, I have this sense that people don't actually know what sweating is. It's true that the girls are thin, but they certainly are not fit. They may gawk at my New Balance sneaks, but at least I've actually gone miles in mine. 

On the brightside the place smells perfectly odorless, the only possible benefit I can think of for a women's-only gym. And now I don't need to feel ashamed for not having run in the last week or two or six, since French girls don't do that kind of thing. As I walked out I wanted to tell the evil gatekeeper that they should consider adding a treadmill, but I don't know the word in French and I didn't bring an extra pair of shoes, so who was I to say anything. Instead I shuffled home in my sneakers to the safety of my sheltered apartment, where clothed in sweats and armed with nutella I sat down to write my rage about fitness feminine.

Trick or Treat, Sentent Mes Pieds; A French Halloween

I'm happy to say that Halloween DOES exist in France. Throughout the day I pleasantly greeted vampires, monsters and other déguisements with a nod of recognition, satisfied that my home country's commercialism had safely made its way overseas. In my city with only two metro lines, I managed to find 3 different costume stores, not to mention the witchy and catty accessories available at the 2-euro shop, Claire's and other Americano establishments. Even the supermarkets clad cash registers and cashiers alike with orange and black balloons, plus occasional cobwebs dangling in shopping carts (or at least I presume those were purposeful embellishments...). I might even go as far as to say that the Europeans do it BETTER by casually making the Nov 1st All Saints Day a national holiday so that zombie-clad teens can party on a weekday night without any grave repercussions (muahaha). But I take that back, because they still don't sell Reese's here.

The notion of French zombies running around everywhere marks the biggest difference between

Why so SERIOUS?

Halloween here and in America (and no, they don't run around in berets!). At first I understandably assumed that every costumed-participant I passed was just a huge Simon Pegg fan, each coincidentally decked out in fake blood and gore in his honor. But on closer inspection, it appeared that I, and only I, had drawn on whiskers and a red bow without the accompanying nail pegged through my forehead. When I reached our friend's apartment with my Halloweenie treats, the party hosts gladly accepted the cookies but disconcertedly looked me up and down. They watched me remove my coat, in hopeful anticipation that  perhaps I had just been waiting for the right moment to reveal my true identity: Hello Kitty RoadKill. Oh, the disappointment.

"But you're the American here!" One of the guests reminded me. His tone, amongst the other foiled eyes, was loud and clear... we expected better.

"But, but, in America we don't have to be scary on Halloween!" I tried to explain. I couldn't accept that the perfect white eared-hat I had found was clearly dismissed.

Makes you hungry?!

"Of course you can dress scary, but you can also dress up as something clever or cute!" My explanation sounded desperate, which just made my attire even more lame. "Or as a slut!" I squealed. It seemed that disapointment had already settled in, that the crowd had moved on instead to the thankfully scary bloody extremity cookies I had made for the occasion. Thank you for saving my ass, I silently prayed before chomping up a big toe.

While I personally did not see any trick-o-treaters throughout the day, word has it that many a cute little witch and ghost had gone door to door seeking bon bons in their paniers. I also was able to find some large citrouilles, the things themselves labeled "Jack-o-Lanterns" rather than pumpkins, in order to get in a bit of carving tradition.

Of course, Europe cannot match the excessiveness of decorations or the self-induced stomachaches we always connote to this time of year in the states. I missed most the pop culture references and witty word-play costumes that friends and I would painstakingly spend weeks preparing for back home (can someone share all the Miley sitings for me?!). But even without a scary movie marathon or the excuse to wear just a bra out in public, the accompanying three day weekend left plenty of room for devilish fun that certainly included a competitive share of tricks and treats.