Gym-bunny moi… et vous?

Like the majority of people out there, I made one of the most banal of New Year’s resolutions—to get in shape. Now were I still in New York, there would be a multitude of ways for me to attempt this: juicing, fasting, colonics-ing, boot-camping, power-plating and so on. The French, of the eat-a-bunch-of-cheese-drink-a-lot-of-wine diet, aren’t so into the hardcore workout mentality yet, which is probably a good thing.

But they have upped their game since the days when my classmate and I were the only two people jogging around Luxembourg Gardens, to the amusement of the smokers sitting around and doing whatever it is French people do in gardens during workday hours (eating cheese and drinking wine?) I joined a “chic” gym near the Opera called L’Usine (it means factory), where I’m supposedly going to catch sightings of Marc Jacobs, John Galliano and famous French actresses I’d never recognize anyway while waiting for my turn on the elliptical.

Along with the membership came a personal training session with a well-muscled and somewhat stocky trainer, or “coach” as they say here in France, named Maxime. He lackadaisically ran me through the cybex machines (yawn), then mentioned that he actually trains kung-fu, kickboxing and boxing. That’s what I’m talking about! Maxime offered me another session to try it out and he kicked my ass yesterday—in the best way. Punching, kicking, running. But no yelling. The French definition of tough doesn’t seem to include verbal abuse like I got during my bootcamp days in New York. I kind of miss that. But I guess that’s just the masochist (or New Yorker) in me.