Here follows a somewhat “typical” day…
Wake up, consume three or four cups of filtered coffee. Procrastinate by joining netflix and start to watch Arrested Development for probably the ninth or tenth time. Be amazed at how fucking brilliant it is. Still.
Break self-made promise of going to the gym to instead decide to go into town to buy leggings. Because, you decide, you will need more leggings for when you do actually make it to the gym.
Go to the metro. Use one of the tickets you purchased under the pretense that it was a “carnet” (booklet) designed for people who qualify for reduced fair. And hey, you still have your student card from way back in Nice, so you’ll be right if you ever get checked up on.
Be rejected by the turnstile. Pause. Hmm.
Wait patiently for the information booth person to return. Their screen has a sign saying they’ll be back in some minutes. Hope that this sign hasn’t been there all day.
Become impatient. Notice other people jumping the gates. Decide against method. Notice the exit gates stay open for three seconds after someone exits. Try to go in that way (it’s much less ungainly than jumping the turnstile). Get rejected and beeped at.
Wait impatiently. Consider jumping over. Think unto yourself that you shall be good, it’s the least you can do as you’ve avoided the gym for five days now.
Finally the lady shows up and tells you you’re not under 12 and the TWO carnet’s you’ve bought are invalid and you need your receipt and you can fill out this form and send it to head office or somewhere to maybe-probably-not get a refund. You don’t have the receipt, but take the form just because it seems easier.
Line up to buy another, more valid ticket. As you are searching for your wallet, you let a lady go in front of you. She yells out to her husband (behind you) asking if they should get a carnet for their two kids. You give them yours. They ask if you’re for real. Yeah, why not, you were an idiot and bought two whole freaking wrong carnets. Someone may as well benefit. They are lovely and impressed and offer to give you money, which you kindly thank them for but reject. You instead accept four normal tickets. Cos hey, you’re not Mother Teresa and you really want leggings.
Catch the metro feeling all smug and righteous and good. Alight the metro and do not give any money to any of the homeless people, nor their dogs. Question exactly how good you are. Feel terrible. Decide to keep some coins in your jacket pocket to donate to the next few homeless people you pass. Promptly forget. Fuck.
Buy leggings and one pair of pajama pants. (The last pair you had were ripped right through the bum when you fell down the stairs and rolled your ankle looking after five dogs and four cats.) You need the PJs so Sam, your landlord, doesn’t have to see you in the same pair of trackies every single evening.
On a whim, go into a department store and buy Clairns skin products. Just cos the lady is lovely and recognises that you don’t have to, should you not desire to, wear make up all the time. Bless her. She also gives you three little samples and sprays you rather generously in Calvin Klein’s One. Thank her and wish her a good day.
Return to the metro, get off halfway home (you must walk more if you’re going to avoid the gym so consistently) and stop at a café that really gets how coffee should be made. Don’t be satisfied with just a coffee, no no! have the formule, go on, you’ve walked a few blocks, you probably maybe don’t deserve it, but whatever. The formule, which is to say, the meal, the dessert AND the coffee, is a bargain. It’d be stupid to NOT get it. You do not regret it. Upon paying and leaving, you ask where you can print a page around this neighbourhood.
Walk into a shop with a heap of Indian men talking animatedly and ignoring you. Interrupt them, ask for a computer and then fail to log into your email cos you can’t make the @ symbol on a french keyboard. Have each of the men take turns in offering advice, until at last you succeed and print your page. Get flustered when you think they are charging six euros and the relax when you realise that you’re still terrible with numbers above sixty (cos they’re fucking retarded in France and say stuff like “sixty-ten; sixty-fourteen; four-twenty-eighteen. Maths in English is not my forte. Still isn’t in French) and it’s only seventy cents.
Walk a new way home, getting purposely lost just to see if your sense of direction is as good as you think it is. Stare at some work dude sitting in his truck who is staring at you and kind of raising his eyebrows at you. Grimace at him and turn away from him, shaking your head. Be pleased when you realise you’re now only a block from home.
Fill out the form you printed and send it off to the casting director of a film clip that you may or may not be participating in next week. You have talked on the phone to Audrey and you know not what actually happened. You said “sorry I didn’t get that, can you talk slower” a bit and then when that became too embarrassing, you just said “yeah…ok…sure…”. The best scenario is that you may get to be in a film clip with Chinese Man, a french hip hop group. The worst scenario is that the Indian men whose computer you used may be running a massive phishing scam and you lose all of your money, or something. Who knows, who cares, you’re in Paris!
Do your laundry, let the kitten attack your hands and computer cables, and PJ pants tie string things. Get an extra seven claw jabs to the thigh, shoulder (You’ve taught him to perch on your shoulder like a parrot) and one cheek. Write a blog post to avoid going to the gym STILL. Unpack your leggings and realise you’ve got no more excuses… Damn.