La Poulette

Tastes like chicken.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

The Purebred Tax

You'd think a lazy girl like me would opt for a leisure holiday where she would indulge in the sins of sloth, gluttony and greed. You'd think you'd find me lazing by the beach smelling of coconut oil and daintily dipping my feet in the water every few hours. You'd think you'd see me dress up in the evening dancing away until the wee hours. Well newsflash: you'd be oh-so-wrong. If you cared to throw a glance my way last summer, you'd have seen me lugging a 15 kg backpack up the French alps. My reward at the end of each day would be taking it off, putting up a tent and wolfing down a meal consisting of powder and hot water which would magically transform into a concoction of actual food (beans and mashed potatoes; spaghetti bolognese; pork and rice) after some major stirring (NASA technology to my rescue). I was safely tucked in my sleeping bag by 21.00 most evenings, trying to catch some uncomfortable z's until the early morning wake up call the following day. Sound like torture to you? As a matter of fact, it was worse. 4 whole nights and 5 whole days of it, no less. And just why exactly would I subject myself to something like this, you ask? Why? I'll tell you why: twas nothing less than the pursuit of that age old adage called LUUUURVE, my friends.

Now I've definitely done my fair share of stupidities in the pursuit of men. I was a stalker, staking out bars and street corners in the hope of seeing objects of my desire. I was one of those girls who would call and hang up the phone (oh the shame!) on unsuspecting pimply boys. And yes, I confess, I would even hitch-hike all over the damn country to see a certain sportsman I desired in action (he barely knew of my existence). Regularly. Sometimes my shameful games worked (sportsman inexplicably caught!), other times they bombed. But I liked to think that everything I did still had some limits of sanity to it and if nothing else it was done back in the day when teenage insanity dictated my actions. Hence, almost cute and forgivable, non? Which is something my little escapade last year certainly was not. Firstly, I was 28 not 18. Secondly paying good money, sacrificing 5 days of annual holiday leave and risking permanent back damage are not exactly minor details, especially as my purebred French object of desire happened to be in a relationship at the time. Really, what were the odds? Nonetheless the gods of good fortune were on my side for a change and conveniently enough his babe couldn't join us for the occasion, so the two of us were to share a tent during the trip (we were to be four: considering the load we were carrying and the weight of a tent, this was not the time or place for shyness or prudes: 2 tents for 4 people had to suffice. Complain? Moi? Certainly not!) It's not like I had much of a plan either. A five day hike is hardly the ideal occasion for man seduction: no showers, no make-up, unshaved legs and hair so greasy I could have squeezed enough oil to fry an egg out of it. Nothing sexy about a girl in a fleece sweater and a rainjacket either. By the end of the first hour of hiking I was already deploring my decision as the steepness of the Alps became a reality and as the backpack straps started to etch a permanent groove into my shoulder.
But lo and behold: apparently the very idea of an outdoorsy girl ready to take up the challenge of the French alps appealed to him so that my insane plan actually worked: yadda, yadda, yadda, girlfriend ditched, deal clinched and less than a month later I was officially the proud girlfriend of a purebred Frenchman.
Yes it's love, yes it's bliss, yes it's been oh la la and je t'aime ever since. But people, hate me not, for the taxes that I pay for this, they do not come cheap. As things stand, it looks as though I am doomed to a lifetime of spending my summer holidays trudging up some mountain trail like a happy camper, pretending to enjoy the view when all I wanna do is fling off my backpack, burn my ugly fleece sweater and flee to the nearest beach. This year at least my negotiations had brought down the length of the hike to a »mere« 3 days and substituted tents for mountain refuges. Nonetheless it looks as though this is as good as it gets. Sure, that certain je ne sais quoi that a Purebred brings into ones life may be priceless, but girls! For the love of god, choose your seduction techniques carefully. Very carefully.


  • At 8/17/2005 07:54:00 PM, Anonymous Jernej said…

    Oh but there is something incredibly appealing on a girl in a fleece sweater and a rainjacket ;)

  • At 8/17/2005 09:17:00 PM, Anonymous rainbow warrior said…

    To say nothing of the Purebread (a.k.a. la Baguette) in his Dolce Gabbanas! You can never have enough couture in the Alps I say.


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