Over the years, I have developed a strong relationship with my jeans. They are my go-to uniform, and until now…most seldom fail to button and zipper after 12 squats. However, there is this one pair of white Rag and Bone’s with a black stripe down the side that likes to betray me. I think he wants to part ways, but I’m not fond of goodbyes.
Above…the famous jeans and then me wearing them in my prime with the best visitor in Wisconsin…the one and only Dlacs (mija.)
I only shop online when I know something will absolutely fit, or the sale is too good to pass up because I’m too lazy to return anything by mail. I know my size in Rag and Bone because they are my favorite jeans of all times. I didn’t think twice about my purchase. After a quite the struggle getting them up, Yael, my twin at birth in the shopping department, notified me she had just made the same purchase and they run a full size small. Shit.
I categorized them as my “skinny” jeans, knowing a miniscule Pierre Hermé macaron would determine whether or not they buttoned. Even with this critical information ingrained in my heart and soul, I have been fully entrenching myself in a 24/7 food adventure in Paris. The truth is, before I landed in the land of croissants, I had been on a diet since age seven. I was part of the cliché who gained the freshman 15, and became slightly glum ever since. Well, until I went on a no-bullshit diet under my fabulous mentor, and self-created cousin, Alexis, who is now a life-coach. I cut out every morsel of sugar, dairy and carbs for two weeks in the beginning. I also limited my animal intake. I was basically left with egg whites, fruits, veggies, quinoa and a gym membership. The first two weeks, I was a moody bitch. You take my dark chocolate away from me, and there goes my character. But once I shed about 18 pounds and was feeling rather svelte, yet still not fully satisfied, and still longing for another ten pounds, I had a permanent smile slapped on my face. Blah blah. I can give you full-on details if you please. I’d be happy to.
The story ends with…all of this kind of going to shit because I moved to Paris. Somehow, in some screwed up way, I’ve learned to feast here without regrets. I have befriended my previous enemies: milk, quiche (my new BFF), carbs, dessert and on. Maybe my ass has seen happier days in my jeans, and my belly once looked like it wasn’t carrying a child, but guess what? I’m happier than ever. I’m living life to the fullest, justifying every bite with the idea that I need content for my blog and…yolo?
Oh, back to the jeans…why this whole post even started… I tried them on today out of sheer curiosity, because the thought of being in a bikini in Tel Aviv next month is starting to haunt me. After a long struggle, they buttoned but I can’t breathe. Not at all.
But it’s Sunday, and finally 50 degrees so I took my jeans for a stroll, and sat at Le QG for a chèvre and pesto tartine. You must’ve thought I would opt for a salad after telling you my life story. But nope. I sat outside with my bitter coffee and devoured my family of goats that were beautifully melted on my Poilane bread. I don’t know what was better, the actual taste of my meal, or the fact that every passerby stopped and marveled at my dish. I was a total showstopper, or I guess my tartine was…but still. Best of all, the dish was 6 euros. Bam.
Le QG, 32 Rue de la Roquette, 75011