Invasion of the Fat People
i’m writing this afternoon from a British-owned coffee shop, Shakespeare and Company. I like the view from here. I sit at counter facing the large windows. Just outside is a patio full of tables. A brick lane runs between the patio and a garden. Today it’s full of red and purple blooming plants, among them is mimosa, roses, hydrangea, and lavender. A breeze carries the scent of lavender into the coffee shop. Beyond the garden and across the river Seine is Notre Dame Cathedral. All around are tourists and gypsies who earn money off them. Many of the tourists are bright red from the sun.
I sat here and wrote for a while, and just now, I noticed something strange. Several customers have blue hair. No, that’s not what’s strange, but blue hair is unusual for France. The customers are louder and pushier than normal. Maybe that’s just because it’s so hot today. Most of the males are wearing shorts and T-shirts, and the females are wearing Rompers, shorts, or dresses. Such clothes reveal a lot of skin. OK, I just realised what is wrong. All around are a lot of thick thighs, cellulite, and large butts on both the males and females. I see swollen ankles as well. Most also sport big bellies, spare tires, and flabby arms. Their cheeks are chubby like fat-cheeked babies. They have multiple chins. I see a college aged male with a gunt (urban dictionary definition but it’s on a dude). He’s swilling beer - in a coffee shop. It’s a pale ale - on a hot day. (Beer drinkers might have found that pale ales are virtually on drinkable on hot days. The flavor does not mix well with the heat.) So are his fat friends. Many of them have the musty odor that only fat people emit.
I’m counting - three quarters of the customers are obese. Since coming to France, I have never before seen so many fat people congregated in one place. The French have a very low obesity rate, and in Paris, it is a one in twenty or so. That is the normal rate for humans in a developed country according to epidemiologists who study the obesity epidemic. I feel like I’m back in the US where two thirds of the population are obese. I was fat for a while too, so I have first hand knowledge.
It’s shocking. it’s been three years since I’ve been near so many fat people in one place. I experienced hunger and malnutrition when I was a child. There’s a famine in Africa and Yemen. These people stuff their faces. They eat until they are literally sick, but they still don’t stop. They continue to eat even though the strain of the excess causes their bodies to break down prematurely over the years. Throw out your conscience with your MacDonald’s hamburger wrapper.
Why here? What has drawn so many fat people to one place? I listen. Their voices are inappropriately loud for a small, typically quiet café. Now I realise that everyone here is speaking English. One male keeps doing a loud doofus chuckle every time his buddy says something. He responds with a comment reminiscent of Beavis and Butthead. Huh huh. I just heard a “Creaky Girl.” There are a lot of “likes.” Now, here’s a “no worries.” They all have American accents. I can’t place the accent to a state, but it sounds like a generic east coast accent. They are a tourist group of Americans. It’s hard to say which nationality of tourist I hate the most, but American is at the top.
Donald Trump and Hilary Clinton - hereditary power, self-entitlement, ignorance, greed, consumer culture, bad manners, pushiness, rudeness, police brutality, drug prohibition, and a national obesity epidemic all come to mind. I have no plans to return, not even to visit.
Red Flags for Drusilla
Until this time in my life, my experiences with dating women, all of which were in the US, had been terrible. Generally, the only girl who would talk to me was the lone drunk fat girl who was left at the bar at closing time. Even she begrudgingly acknowledged my existence. Aelys and I were not compatible in lots of ways, as the reader might have guessed. Beggars can’t be choosers, and I took what little I could get.
For those with an IQ around 160, which is four standard deviations above the mean in a normal distribution of IQ scores, the concept of being intellectually compatible changes. Roughly one in 30,000 of the population is intellectually compatible with me if “intellectual compatibility” is defined by having similar IQs. In terms of education, I’m an expert in some subjects, very knowledgeable in a few others, and know a little bit about some more subjects. I also have skills. I can perform a couple of athletic feats as well. Despite all that , I have plenty of limitations compared to others. I’m acutely aware that there are lots of things I don’t know anything about and can’t do. I don’t feel superior.
An ironic characteristic of ignorant people is that the more ignorant they are, the more sure of themselves they are. This has been seen in US politics a lot recently. It’s also true for expert professionals such as MDs and PhDs. Mastering one body of knowledge creates the illusion in their minds that they know a lot more about the world than they actually know. Being ignorant is okay as long as one is aware of it.
The extreme self-assuredness of the ignorant is seen a lot in relationships too. When one partner in a relationship has the sense that she can never be wrong, when the spouse for example insists she is always right no matter what, even when she claims 2+2 = 5.
I felt out of place when I lived in the USA, a country where people celebrate their own lack of education, where even the leaders mock science, where Trump is a role model, where research scientists are unemployed, and where dating is a humiliating and degrading experience.
In Paris, perhaps not so many women are impressed by money, fancy clothes, Rolex watches, or expensive cars, as their American counterparts. At parties, not so many were bothered that I didn’t dress like a YUPPIE. I had not yet learned that pushy ignorance is not just an American trait. The result was that I was finding that Paris is like the Disney Land of romance. Once you buy the ticket and walk through the gates, you find yourself in a marvelous land where fantastic creatures offer you spectacular new amusements. I would soon be overwhelmed by this change.
I had felt an oppressive loneliness since I got to the city, despite liking the city itself. There was a sense of urgency, of an unfulfilled relationship, I missed companionship, even that of Aelys but mostly of our cats.
I had started spending time with Drusilla, who was showing me around Paris. We went to interesting restaurants, to parties, to movies, to tea rooms, to museums, and for walks.
Only weeks before, I had been in California where it was sunny and warm. It was winter and it was cold here, but now that I was making friends with people like Drusila, an inner warmth and lightness of being made me not mind the weather and darkness of the season. Adapting to my new job became easier, and the time I spent with her decreased the stress of settling in a new country. I felt a sense of optimism with life. I was living the dream, and I was spending time with someone I liked and might grow to love.
Later that winter, she invited me skiing with her. The trip would be for two weeks. She had already made the arrangements. All I had to do was show up and pay half. Organising a ski vacation was still beyond my ability to navigate without stress in a new country, so I appreciated that she was doing this.
Having to maintain a daily drug hobby makes travelling uncomfortable. I was new to France, and had given up a habit of injecting heroin a few months prior to coming here. Without the burden of needing daily access to a supply, I was ready to spend a couple of weeks in the Alps with her, or so I thought.
The day to leave was here, and it would be two weeks of skiing at Alpe d’Huez. I was looking forward to the trip, spending time with my new friend, traveling in another country, skiing, and learning about the culture. I wanted to work on a project a little during those two weeks in my spare time.
Not only would it be the first time I would see the Alps, but the trip promised to be full of other new experiences as well.
I packed the night before. I was too excited to sleep. That morning, I met her on the outskirts of the city and got in her car. On the way out of the city, she had an idea.
“If you agree, we can cook our own food. It will be cheaper than eating at restaurants every day. The apartment (gite) has a kitchen,” she said.
“Sounds good,” I said, “but I’m not a good cook.”
“Why not?” she said.
Her voice surprised me. I thought I heard a note of anger and condescension. I had never perceived that in her before. That was the first red flag, and we had only been driving for five minutes.
“It’s complicated,” I said. “but I never had a chance to learn.”
There was more to it than that, but I would not tell her. My father said cooking was for sissies. The only thing men are allowed to cook is bacon. He was always frying bacon, which I had long realised was strange because he was a Jew. Perhaps out of guilt, he cooked the bacon strips until they shrivelled into hard little black curls that smoked and caught fire.
Because the kitchen did not have a ventilation fan, and the kitchen windows were nailed shut, the greasy smoke filled the whole house. It would send me into a fit of sneezing, no matter which room I was in. The house always stank like burnt pork. My father made me eat it sometimes, and when he did I usually got sick from it. Scorched pork is full of free radicals that have been linked to cancer. To this day, bacon, even when it is cooked correctly, and pork in general makes me sick.
i’m writing this afternoon from a British-owned coffee shop, Shakespeare and Company. I like the view from here. I sit at counter facing the large windows. Just outside is a patio full of tables. A brick lane runs between the patio and a garden. Today it’s full of red and purple blooming plants, among them is mimosa, roses, hydrangea, and lavender. A breeze carries the scent of lavender into the coffee shop. Beyond the garden and across the river Seine is Notre Dame Cathedral. All around are tourists and gypsies who earn money off them. Many of the tourists are bright red from the sun.
I sat here and wrote for a while, and just now, I noticed something strange. Several customers have blue hair. No, that’s not what’s strange, but blue hair is unusual for France. The customers are louder and pushier than normal. Maybe that’s just because it’s so hot today. Most of the males are wearing shorts and T-shirts, and the females are wearing Rompers, shorts, or dresses. Such clothes reveal a lot of skin. OK, I just realised what is wrong. All around are a lot of thick thighs, cellulite, and large butts on both the males and females. I see swollen ankles as well. Most also sport big bellies, spare tires, and flabby arms. Their cheeks are chubby like fat-cheeked babies. They have multiple chins. I see a college aged male with a gunt (urban dictionary definition but it’s on a dude). He’s swilling beer - in a coffee shop. It’s a pale ale - on a hot day. (Beer drinkers might have found that pale ales are virtually on drinkable on hot days. The flavor does not mix well with the heat.) So are his fat friends. Many of them have the musty odor that only fat people emit.
I’m counting - three quarters of the customers are obese. Since coming to France, I have never before seen so many fat people congregated in one place. The French have a very low obesity rate, and in Paris, it is a one in twenty or so. That is the normal rate for humans in a developed country according to epidemiologists who study the obesity epidemic. I feel like I’m back in the US where two thirds of the population are obese. I was fat for a while too, so I have first hand knowledge.
It’s shocking. it’s been three years since I’ve been near so many fat people in one place. I experienced hunger and malnutrition when I was a child. There’s a famine in Africa and Yemen. These people stuff their faces. They eat until they are literally sick, but they still don’t stop. They continue to eat even though the strain of the excess causes their bodies to break down prematurely over the years. Throw out your conscience with your MacDonald’s hamburger wrapper.
Why here? What has drawn so many fat people to one place? I listen. Their voices are inappropriately loud for a small, typically quiet café. Now I realise that everyone here is speaking English. One male keeps doing a loud doofus chuckle every time his buddy says something. He responds with a comment reminiscent of Beavis and Butthead. Huh huh. I just heard a “Creaky Girl.” There are a lot of “likes.” Now, here’s a “no worries.” They all have American accents. I can’t place the accent to a state, but it sounds like a generic east coast accent. They are a tourist group of Americans. It’s hard to say which nationality of tourist I hate the most, but American is at the top.
Donald Trump and Hilary Clinton - hereditary power, self-entitlement, ignorance, greed, consumer culture, bad manners, pushiness, rudeness, police brutality, drug prohibition, and a national obesity epidemic all come to mind. I have no plans to return, not even to visit.
Red Flags for Drusilla
Until this time in my life, my experiences with dating women, all of which were in the US, had been terrible. Generally, the only girl who would talk to me was the lone drunk fat girl who was left at the bar at closing time. Even she begrudgingly acknowledged my existence. Aelys and I were not compatible in lots of ways, as the reader might have guessed. Beggars can’t be choosers, and I took what little I could get.
For those with an IQ around 160, which is four standard deviations above the mean in a normal distribution of IQ scores, the concept of being intellectually compatible changes. Roughly one in 30,000 of the population is intellectually compatible with me if “intellectual compatibility” is defined by having similar IQs. In terms of education, I’m an expert in some subjects, very knowledgeable in a few others, and know a little bit about some more subjects. I also have skills. I can perform a couple of athletic feats as well. Despite all that , I have plenty of limitations compared to others. I’m acutely aware that there are lots of things I don’t know anything about and can’t do. I don’t feel superior.
An ironic characteristic of ignorant people is that the more ignorant they are, the more sure of themselves they are. This has been seen in US politics a lot recently. It’s also true for expert professionals such as MDs and PhDs. Mastering one body of knowledge creates the illusion in their minds that they know a lot more about the world than they actually know. Being ignorant is okay as long as one is aware of it.
The extreme self-assuredness of the ignorant is seen a lot in relationships too. When one partner in a relationship has the sense that she can never be wrong, when the spouse for example insists she is always right no matter what, even when she claims 2+2 = 5.
I felt out of place when I lived in the USA, a country where people celebrate their own lack of education, where even the leaders mock science, where Trump is a role model, where research scientists are unemployed, and where dating is a humiliating and degrading experience.
In Paris, perhaps not so many women are impressed by money, fancy clothes, Rolex watches, or expensive cars, as their American counterparts. At parties, not so many were bothered that I didn’t dress like a YUPPIE. I had not yet learned that pushy ignorance is not just an American trait. The result was that I was finding that Paris is like the Disney Land of romance. Once you buy the ticket and walk through the gates, you find yourself in a marvelous land where fantastic creatures offer you spectacular new amusements. I would soon be overwhelmed by this change.
I had felt an oppressive loneliness since I got to the city, despite liking the city itself. There was a sense of urgency, of an unfulfilled relationship, I missed companionship, even that of Aelys but mostly of our cats.
I had started spending time with Drusilla, who was showing me around Paris. We went to interesting restaurants, to parties, to movies, to tea rooms, to museums, and for walks.
Only weeks before, I had been in California where it was sunny and warm. It was winter and it was cold here, but now that I was making friends with people like Drusila, an inner warmth and lightness of being made me not mind the weather and darkness of the season. Adapting to my new job became easier, and the time I spent with her decreased the stress of settling in a new country. I felt a sense of optimism with life. I was living the dream, and I was spending time with someone I liked and might grow to love.
Later that winter, she invited me skiing with her. The trip would be for two weeks. She had already made the arrangements. All I had to do was show up and pay half. Organising a ski vacation was still beyond my ability to navigate without stress in a new country, so I appreciated that she was doing this.
Having to maintain a daily drug hobby makes travelling uncomfortable. I was new to France, and had given up a habit of injecting heroin a few months prior to coming here. Without the burden of needing daily access to a supply, I was ready to spend a couple of weeks in the Alps with her, or so I thought.
The day to leave was here, and it would be two weeks of skiing at Alpe d’Huez. I was looking forward to the trip, spending time with my new friend, traveling in another country, skiing, and learning about the culture. I wanted to work on a project a little during those two weeks in my spare time.
Not only would it be the first time I would see the Alps, but the trip promised to be full of other new experiences as well.
I packed the night before. I was too excited to sleep. That morning, I met her on the outskirts of the city and got in her car. On the way out of the city, she had an idea.
“If you agree, we can cook our own food. It will be cheaper than eating at restaurants every day. The apartment (gite) has a kitchen,” she said.
“Sounds good,” I said, “but I’m not a good cook.”
“Why not?” she said.
Her voice surprised me. I thought I heard a note of anger and condescension. I had never perceived that in her before. That was the first red flag, and we had only been driving for five minutes.
“It’s complicated,” I said. “but I never had a chance to learn.”
There was more to it than that, but I would not tell her. My father said cooking was for sissies. The only thing men are allowed to cook is bacon. He was always frying bacon, which I had long realised was strange because he was a Jew. Perhaps out of guilt, he cooked the bacon strips until they shrivelled into hard little black curls that smoked and caught fire.
Because the kitchen did not have a ventilation fan, and the kitchen windows were nailed shut, the greasy smoke filled the whole house. It would send me into a fit of sneezing, no matter which room I was in. The house always stank like burnt pork. My father made me eat it sometimes, and when he did I usually got sick from it. Scorched pork is full of free radicals that have been linked to cancer. To this day, bacon, even when it is cooked correctly, and pork in general makes me sick.