There is an age-old paradox which exists concerning the French, and you probably know it. When one thinks of French food, it's all buttery croissants, melt-in-your-mouth macarons, rich dark chocolate, crispy baguettes, savory cheese, and wine. Lots of wine. But when one thinks of a Frenchwoman? Thin. Fashionable. And impossibly effortless. It's just not fair.
As I was packing my bags to move to Paris for a year, there was a nagging voice reminding me that my Midwestern waistline was not going to blend in with the lithe ladies of gay Paris draped seamlessly in black and cashmere. Those glorious womanly curves I was given at the ripe old age of 12 wouldn't stand for it. And you know what? That voice was right.
