So, it has been an interesting couple of weeks… I’ve been getting more freelance as a copywriter for advertising, which thrills me to no end and which means I am up early, out the door running off to see clients. On the days I don’t have to see clients, I basically roll out of bed, over to my desk and I start writing. So going out the door means major changes for me. The most important one being that I have to GET DRESSED! To work with French chicks. Usually very chic French chicks who are about half my age. No pressure there.

It has taken some time, but I seem to have developed something of a uniform, a Paris chic look that works on my tragically American roundness; black, blue, or white jeans, a business shirt that I leave untucked, with a fitted sweater on top and three inch heels.

As I walk to the various offices I visit, I am jealous of all the Parisiennes and how chic they look. I could live here for 60 years, I’ll never have that casually elegant, thrown together look they have mastered. And I love the way they wear dresses. I would love to wear a dress from time to time, but have never learned to shop for anything but the LBD, everything else just seems too, too… Too something! Too dressy, too frumpy, too floral. I’ve never managed to get it just right.

At the agencies, I work with a scrappy crew. Most of my colleagues are half my age (yes, I’ve mentioned that twice, it seems to matter in Paris), and they’re dressed like students, earbuds in their ears, a can of coke from last night’s late night session on their desk. Since real estate is precious, they never have a desk for me and I often end up working in some odd corner, where people have to step over my extended legs each time they pass. I love being in the agency and having the creative energy buzzing around like atoms in space. Conversations about a book cover spotted over the weekend may lead to an entire campaign for a product like corn chips.

At lunch time, everyone goes their way. Some of the agencies have a cafeteria, others subsidize their employees’ lunches through Ticket Restaurants. Since I am freelance, and just pop-in from time to time, I can arrange for long lunches to run errands and attend other meetings with other clients. This Monday I had a meeting on the poshest avenue in the world, avenue Montaigne, at the extraordinarily elegant Plaza Athenée hotel for a treatment at the Institut Dior spa.

Now that you’re done laughing at me, yes, it was a meeting, because I have been testing spas in Paris for a couple of articles I am working on, and I have to test these spas in order to write about them. I will write about the entire experience in the weeks to come, but for now, lets just say it was lovely. This particular “soins” end with a full makeover; foundation, powder, the works. You may have noticed above, my morning routine does not include make-up. I’m a strictly moisturizer kind of girl. I may wear mascara and maybe some lipstick in a pinch, but that is about it.

I had left for “lunch” looking like a normal member of the team and I came back looking like a wanna be socialite. People were doing a double takes as they’d pass, no longer clearing my extended legs; twisted ankles became epidemic. I thought I should do something. Say something. My inner American wanting to apologise profusely, or at the very least, explain. But my Parisienne took over and I sat there having fun watching the expressions on the faces that passed, enjoying my time as a working girl.

Last Friday evening I had a business meeting near the Grands Boulevards. I arrived early and being on Detox, I was feeling weak with hunger. Needing to be in top form, I dashed into a Carrefour City and treated myself to an organic carrot salad, which I wolfed down voraciously in the long hallway entrance of the grocery store before heading back across the street.

The entire mission took less than five minutes of my time, but in that time, an accident had occurred. I did not see the accident, but I saw a body laying across the bus lane, a man in a suit the color of oak. Another man was crouched by his side and I was relieved to see that the accident-ee had been wearing a helmet. A second man stood nearby on a cellphone, while a third was directing traffic. I could not identify it, but there was something very odd about the scene.

In retrospect, I realize that if any of the French folk I know had been involved in an accident, there would have been some serious screaming, involving some very colorful language being thrown about. An agitated fist, or six, would be menacing the heavens above. Friday night, everyone on the scene seemed to be moving, well, not exactly in slow motion, but in no motion, without being perfectly still, either. Not a single voice was raised.

I was very relieved to see that the man had been wearing a helmet. There were enough good samaritans onsite that I was clearly going to be of no help and a crowd was starting to form, so I scurried on by, glad to hear sirens arrive. The accident happened less than 10 metres from the door I had to enter. As I turned to ring the bell, I saw that the man, who seemed to be in his late thirties, had a beard and a disconcertingly large pool of blood under his helmet. The door opened.

I went directly to the first floor and from the conference room I heard a few more sirens, then things seemed to calm down below. When I left the office over an hour later, there were still policemen on the scene. And an odd looking ambulance. Then I saw the curtains. White curtains, hanging on metal poles, forming a neat white cube that seemed to be floating there, not really connected to the black asphalt on which it stood. That ambulance was not an ambulance, it was a morgue truck and the man I had seen was dead.

I did not know this man, nor anyone who did know him. But my heart went out to his family and loved ones as I thought of the ripple effect the loss of his life would have. The man and his death touched me, like haunting waves of air stirred by the flapping wings of butterflies.

I wasn’t going to write this post. But my good friend, Out and About in Paris suggested I should use it as a reminder to everyone to be safe on the street. She is right, and I do so in honor of this man, hoping that if he had to die in a road accident, perhaps the loss of his life would save another, by reminding us all how important it is to pay attention in the street. Cellphones, down, everyone. Heads up.
Please, everyone, listen to The Man and be safe out there!!!

My tongue is green, my head is spinning and my teeth are furry. I haven’t had solid food in over 24 hours. No, its not the plague, its Detox Delight! Which is really funny if you think about it. A delightful detox? Really?

Well, actually, yes… I’m only on day 2, but already I’ve lost 2 kilos. I know that this is weight that will come back if I return to my evil ways, but that is the other delight of this program. The two days I spent “prepping” have really help point out my evil ways. Particularly my habit of going into the kitchen for a little snack between the articles I write.

Its a break. I need to stretch my legs, and rest my eyes from the computer screen. I always choose a healthy snack; a clementine, a rice cake or a few almonds. But I must have skipped my math because those calories add up!!! Now I boil some water and grate a bit of ginger inside. Same break, zero calories.

Another delight has been the comments from my family;
“You’re crazy, Mom, you look perfect.”
“No toast for me this morning, I’ll just have a plain yogurt, I’ll do a mini-detox. Like you.”

And then there is the delight of having all my meals planned for me. Detox Delight delivers. They deliver your entire menu for the next to days. They’ll be delivering chez moi for five days. This week I will not have to ask myself “what’s for dinner.” Not even once! The family is surviving on leftovers I freeze, which means they are cleaning out my freezer, too!!! And since there is no cooking, there are no dishes to wash. Now that is what I call delightful!!!

The not so delightful part has been the rather large, water logged legs I had to hoist into bed last night with their sexy sock lines that had to hide from Mr French. And taking the metro home from a meeting last night, sitting next to a young man who was munching innocently away on his fresh out of the oven baguette as I used all of my resources to resist the urge to pounce on his snack and reveal my inner gluten glutton.