Ok, between the French and their love affair with butter and the Spaniards with their love of olive oil soaked paella and creamy egg custards, I am caught in their culinary clutches, helpless to resist. This morning it occurred to me it was useless to even try. I observed as the thin and fashionable European women sipped their cafe con leche and assorted pastries without guilt or hesitation and convinced myself that calories are decidedly not a thing to be counted here, but instead, savoured.
When in Rome...yet another justification. It also occurred to me that as I clocked at least 20,000 steps today, whatever I did ingest fuelled my body and I likely broke even by day's end. There is such a distinct joie de vivre that permeates the daily life in Europe that we do not embrace in North America. The trick it seems is everything in moderation. An ounce of exquisite creamy Brie, one slice of butter slathered baguette, a freshly baked croissant, one scoop of dulce de leche gelato. Saying no seems uptight and rigidly controlled. Indulging seems relaxed and sensual. The difference not unlike bony and sinewy vs curvy and sensual.
So, for this brief interlude in my life, I will partake. Savour. Enjoy. Embrace my curves.
Indulge.
Live.
Guiltless.
Happy.
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