A Nutella Panini. Crepes with ice cream and chocolate sauce. A Cornish pasty. A custard filled donut with chocolate icing and white chocolate flakes. A Kit Kat McFlurry. A McCrispy. Pain au chocolat. Fish and chips. A whole pizza. A praline tart.
Those are the things I ate on vacation.
When I stepped on the scale Wednesday morning, I held my breath, stared at the nail hole in the closet wall in front of me, and dreaded looking down when the scale beeped. Then I exhaled and smiled because I had lost four pounds. I suppose all that nonsense about French women not getting fat was true.
Even though I ate all those scrumptious, delectable foods listed above, I also walked so far that my feet hurt at the end of every day. I walked and walked and walked because I knew something old and/or magnificent was hiding just around the corner, like a Metro stop leading back to the hotel. I probably walked 6 or 7 miles every day. I got blisters. I walked and walked and didn’t gain a single pound, even though I ate total crap.
Now that I’ve been back in the states for a week, I have been missing this alternate reality I lived in for 8 days. I very much enjoyed this universe where I was able to eat a chocolate sandwich for lunch and make more room in my jeans on the same day. It has made me wonder on the couch how I could make this reality a part of my daily life, but it occurred to me I’d have to get off the couch to do it. Walking 6 or 7 miles a day would start to get old pretty fast, especially when I wasn’t seeing new and fascinating things every day.
So, I’ll go back to my normal life instead, where I walk 2 miles during my lunch break and my feet don’t always hurt and sadly, there are no chocolate sandwiches for lunch.