|Ile flottante and crème brûlèe, aka the source of my problems.|
French Weight is the technical term for the unsettling phenomenon of tripling in size once you move to France, because everything tastes god-damn amazing. French Weight may be caused by, but is not limited to: crème brûlèe, Nutella, fois gras, excessively cheap brie, pain au chocolat, chocolat chaud, croissants, beignets, tarte tatin, crepes, croque monsieurs, and the sudden addition of wine to every meal. French Weight is not affected by runs through the park, as one would hope, and persists in accumulating despite Jillian Michaels workout videos. French Weight cannot be effectively countered unless a) one develops a deathly allergy to good-tasting French food, b) Jillian Michaels herself flies to France to threaten you into shape, c) you eventually move back to America and no longer have access to patisseries or chocolateries. French Weight may be accompanied by a sudden tendency to wear loose clothing and a healthy dose of shame.
Feel free to use it in dialogue. For example:
"Isn't Melissa coming to the club tonight?"
"No, didn't you hear? She has French Weight. Her self esteem won't let her out of doors."
|Une crêpe complète, stuffed with melted cheese, creme, and ham. Le nom nom.|
I know that my subconscious has been quite concerned about French Weight lately, because last night I had a nightmare where I didn’t know if I was pregnant, or just extremely obese. I’m vain enough that the idea of the latter upset me just as much as the former; either way, I was ready to have a massive panic attack. Dream-me ran to the nearest pharmacy to get a pregnancy test, but my French sucked and they couldn’t understand what I wanted. I began frantically motioning towards my gut and they offered me diet pills. I tried again, pleading and waving in the general direction of my vagina, and they offered me tampons. In desperation they finally offered me bacon (I don’t know-- it was a dream) and in a frustrated rage I cried “No—If I’m fat that WILL NOT HELP!” I woke up relieved that I was not pregnant and/or comically fat, but upset that it was 7:30 in the morning. You win some, you lose some.