When American novelist Edith Wharton traveled to France in 1919, she observed that the French were “puzzled by our queer fear of our own bodies.” So, I reasoned, my queer fear might be the cultural baggage of generations. But really, in these enlightened days? It was silly. Time to let it go. In the meantime, might as well try the new gym.
Day 1. The instant I entered Espace Vit’Halles, a friendly monsieur at the front desk bid me a big, grinning welcome. Yoga, dance aerobics, weights – I was encouraged to profit from them all. “The ladies’ changing room is on the second floor, Madame,” he said, and shooed me in the approximate direction. I found the door, clearly marked “Femmes,” and entered a sanctuary of sensual splendor. Lovely lavender décor; chaise longues lined up for lounging; flowers blooming on the mirrored vanities: the room was a swoon of comfort and beauty. Showcased under spotlights, a hot tub as vast and artfully conceived as ancient Roman baths bid welcome. Such luxury. Such pampering! The gym-women who showered or soaked or otherwise performed their toilettes in various stages of undress flaunted their inner French girls exactly as Ollivier claimed. Women sinewy and women plump, women with goddesses’ bodies and women with pocks and spots and skin that looked anything but good to be in: All got in and out of underwear that wasn’t underwear at all, but rather, lingerie. There it all was, France’s finest: lacy, racy and for sure, sensational.
These confections, no doubt expensive, were also, let’s face it: frightening. How would I ever undress in the presence of women so adept in the provocative art of underwear? Some of the self-satisfied purring cats of the changing room paraded…no, swaggered around naked. And down to their brazenly exposed French toes they seemed shame-free. If I were to strip to my big dowdy whities before their eyes, what then? So quaint! I feared they’d exclaim. An American prude. Doesn’t like to be nude.
I was in luck. There was a toilet stall that could serve as a personal changing cabine. My strictly utilitarian bra sans lace, plunge, pads, push-up, or the least suggestion of seduction could be kept secret. I scuttled in, did my business and emerged dressed in workout-wear. Ta dum! Embarrassment deflected. I headed for the exit and dance aerobic class, but stopped dead when I heard a bit of catnip call.
“Oh, Madame! Madame!” I turned to see a raven-haired, hipless thing holding aloft my favorite faded cut-offs – the shorts that for a good 30 years now, I have found charming on me. “You dropped your…your….” She did not have words for what they were. But her sweet, sad smile and pitying tone told me all that Inès de la Fressange already had:
“No Parisienne would dress mutton as lamb.”
The ex-runway model and French fashion guru put this rule in her Parisian Chic: A Style Guide to let me know in advance of coming to France that shorts, like miniskirts, have no business on any woman older than…young.
“Merci beaucoup, Madame,” I said, sheepish. I waited until she pranced off, pert ponytail swinging, and tossed my past into the trash. Mutton?!
Day 2. “Bonjour, Madame,” said the grinning monsieur when I returned to try the gym’s yoga. “The ladies’ changing room is on the first floor. Enjoy your class.” That’s odd, I thought. Wasn’t the ladies’ changing room just yesterday on Floor 2? Yet on the first floor, as promised, there it was, the door marked “Femmes".