It appears I have landed in a strange land of all things athletic. The crowd here are either running just for the hell of it or racing around town on super cycles to yoga and pilates, after which they meet up to sip hemp/kale/algae smoothies and chow down on gluten-free tofu burgers with a side of organic quinoa. As for meat, well, apparently that’s a four letter word never to be uttered among the young and beautiful locals who plan to stay that way forever.
Cripes, I’m worn out from just watching them zoom past me as I sit on my marbled arse reading a book and scarfing down a load of chocolate with a chardonnay chaser. I thought Victoria was chock full of doddering biddies who take tea precisely at 5 with a generous nip of brandy and giant triangles of gâteau, you know, my people.
Instead I’ve been thrust into a bunch of supermodels poised to play beach volleyball between kayaking competitions and triathlons, done while pushing a stroller carrying their third child. A far cry from Vevey, where the gals take a Sunday stroll along Lake Geneva puffing a Marlboro, sporting designer sunglasses, 5 inch heels, painted on jeans, and carrying a bag of croissants and an open bottle of wine.
I guess living in a place where the weather favours outdoor activities leads to an obsession with fitness. And I suspect it’s already rubbing off on me. Why I myself have several blisters caused by the walk from my apartment to the asian street food restaurant and the Shopper’s Drug Mart downtown.
I’m on the hunt for snazzy sneakers and I walked out of the Gap the other day with a pair of “zen pants”, apparently just the thing to wear as proof that you are indeed an Olympian (there are 6 in my building alone). Truth be told, I only bought the damn things because they were long enough and I needed a new pair of sweatpants—I wore a hole right through my old ones. Sitting around for 2 years is not for the faint of bum.
Anyway, just as I did in France and Switzerland, I’ll do my best to adapt to the new culture in which I find myself. I’ll join the gym this week and see what I can do to whip this old broad into shape. But that’s where it ends.
As soon as I rustle up a BBQ, I’ll also rustle up a bloody big slab of Canadian steak to sizzle and a potato the size of my head smothered in sour cream. But I’ll wear the yoga pants while I’m eating it, and if anybody raises an eyebrow I’ll just say I need the protein and carbs because I’m in training—training for god knows what, but that’s my story and I’ll be sticking to it.
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