Petite Confessions - Vicki Lesage (read dune .txt) 📗
- Author: Vicki Lesage
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Whether you’ve endured laser hair removal or Brazilian bikini waxes, each is painful in its own way. Reward yourself with this French-inspired Brazilian cocktail.
1 lime
3 tsp. sugar
2 oz. cachaça
3 oz. sparkling wine
1. Cut lime into 4 wedges.
2. Add lime and sugar to a sturdy glass and muddle until you can’t muddle any more (i.e. the lime juice has been extracted from the lime.)
3. Add the cachaça, stir.
4. Top with sparkling wine. Enjoy the beauty of (a hair-free) life.
Makes 1 serving
13
One of the many joys of pregnancy—aside from reflux, fatigue, nausea, and perpetual discomfort—is acne. Some women get that beautiful healthy glow. Lucky them!
I got the teenage zit-face sheen instead. Thank you, hormones.
After trying nearly every pregnancy-safe product on the market, I turned to the internet. Surely there would be something to rid my skin of these horrible spots? Surely I wouldn’t have to spend my entire pregnancy holding random objects in front of my chin so people wouldn’t see my pimples? My arms were getting tired!
Then I stumbled across a do-it-yourself natural face mask on Pinterest, the land where everything looks easier than it is.
This was it! This was the solution to my crappy skin issues! And I (kind of) had all the ingredients on hand!
In all my excitement, I only briefly skimmed the directions and quickly got started. Looked easy enough.
And I’m sure for any normal, calm, patient person it would be easy. But I think you can tell where this is going.
Normal person:
1. Follows directions.
2. Uses honey and cinnamon, as the ingredient list states.
3. Measures 1 tsp of each, as the directions indicate.
4. Stirs the mixture in a bowl, for even distribution.
5. Applies gently and lets set for 5-10 minutes.
6. Scrubs while removing, to exfoliate.
7. Ends up with fresh, acne-free skin.
What I did:
1. Did not follow directions.
2. Used lite pancake syrup because it tastes gross and I had a whole bottle to get rid of. Close enough to honey, right? Wrong. I did at least use cinnamon.
3. Did not measure the quantities, and instead eyeballed it. How hard could it be to gauge a teaspoon? Now I didn’t have to wash a measuring spoon!
4. Put ingredients into my left palm, rubbed around with my right index finger. Now I didn’t have to wash a bowl or spoon either!
5. Applied to my face, scrubbing as I went. On this step, I was not intentionally ignoring instructions, I just totally spaced out, dreaming of the beautiful skin awaiting me.
6. Tried to let it set for 5 minutes, but only lasted 30 seconds because of the burning. Oh my God the burning! Rinsed gently but quickly, trying to remove every last trace of the wicked concoction before my entire face melted off.
7. Ended up with a bright red face that throbbed for a good 10 minutes afterwards.
But… the acne had dried up!
Will I attempt this face mask again? Maybe. Will I remember to follow directions? Probably not.
Mulled Gin
I’ll give you one guess which ingredients this cocktail contains. Nope, not lite pancake syrup. I threw that stuff away as soon as my face stopped burning. Yep, you guessed it: Honey and cinnamon are this cocktail’s featured ingredients.
1 bottle red wine
12 oz. gin
1 tsp. honey
1 oz. orange juice
1 oz. lemon juice
1 cinnamon stick
1. Add all ingredients to a pot. (Measure them! No shortcuts or substitutions!)
2. Stir, and simmer until the honey has dissolved.
3. Serve warm (but not burning!) and relax.
Makes 8 servings
14
A bowl of ice cream has roughly the same amount of calories as I burn carrying my newborn daughter up and down the two flights of stairs to our Parisian apartment. If my toddler is in tow as well, that makes up for the hot fudge.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Oddly, and unfairly, I gained weight after Stella was born. I mean I guess it’s not that unfair when you count the number of empty Ben & Jerry’s containers in the trash. But other than my ice cream indulgence, I ate healthy, nursed round the clock, and walked nearly everywhere with my baby girl strapped to my chest in the baby carrier.
So why was I so jiggly and low-energy?
Each day I thought, “Today’s the day I’ll start exercising.” But when your days blur into nights and you have no more than 10 minutes at a time to yourself, how are you supposed to work out? Or count calories? Or strike even one yoga pose?
Our apartment faces a maternity hospital. Sipping lukewarm coffee while feeding Stella, I glance out the window and see tiny bundles of joy leaving the hospital for the first time. As the father putzes around with the car seat (no one ever remembers to install it before the baby is born) and the mother stands there impatiently holding the baby, I spy on their little family.
I can’t help but notice that the cliché is true—French women don’t get fat, not even the ones who gave birth four days ago. I glance down at my spare tire. Sheesh. As if I didn’t have enough post-baby concerns, now I’m comparing myself to stick-thin French women. I really am a glutton for punishment.
And ice cream.
Months tick by, my belly swaying with each step I take, until I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window of a trendy French boutique. Stella’s chubby legs dangle from the baby carrier and she looks much bigger than other four-month-old babies. Like mother, like daughter? Or maybe we’re just normal Americans, destined to forever be larger than our French compatriots.
I take another look. Underneath my daughter’s legs, my stomach protrudes and I appear four months pregnant. The clothes in the store window look impossibly small and I feel impossibly frumpy.
Something needs to change.
That afternoon, I dig out our Wii and strap on the Zumba belt, shimmying and shaking like a fool as Stella smiles up at me from her swing. I ignore the stares of the people in the hospital windows across the street. I look silly. I look like I’m being attacked by a swarm of bees.
But I feel amazing.
It’s not just about the weight. Yeah, I’ll be happy when the baby belly is gone. But I’m happier taking charge of my body again. Moving, stretching, jumping, and what could charitably be called dancing. It’s invigorating.
I finish the 20-minute beginner’s session and score lower than I even thought possible. It threatens to demotivate me until I catch my daughter’s eye. Her face breaks into a full smile as if saying, “We did it, Mommy!”
We can do this! I can do this. At least I took the first wobbly, out-of-practice step. The rest is cake.
Or ice cream.
Ice Cream Float-tail
Sometimes you just have to not worry about calories and exercise and blah, blah, that’s boring. Ice cream is much more fun. Treat yourself with this ice creamy cocktail!
2 oz. vanilla vodka
1 scoop vanilla ice cream
12 oz. root beer
1. Pour vodka into a frosty mug.
2. Top with a scoop of ice cream.
3. Pour root beer over the ice cream.
4. Sip with a straw and savor. Until you get brain freeze.
Makes 1 serving
15
The French government subsidizes dildos. OK, not really, but the French healthcare system covers perineum re-education, and that includes the purchase of a “sonde” (probe, in much scarier-sounding English) to be used by your professional perineum re-educator in determining the quality of your vaginal muscle.
What happened to doing a few Kegels and calling it a day?
The French are preoccupied with a woman’s state of affairs after giving birth. Invasively so.
When my husband returned to work after his 11-day paternity leave (you won’t catch me complaining about that perk of the system), his co-workers asked the routine questions:
“The family is doing well? Baby is healthy?”
“Yes, we’re all doing great, thanks,” Mika replied.
“And your wife has started her perineum re-education sessions?”
Because apparently my hoo-hah and its elasticity are typical water cooler banter between colleagues and employee-whose-wife-just-had-a-baby.
After Leo was born, I went along with the state-sponsored plan to get my goods back in shape. I didn’t want to pee my pants every time I sneezed. I understood the importance of returning to business as usual. Or business as “usual” as you can get after giving birth to a 7 1/2-pound preemie.
I asked Mika to go to the pharmacy to buy the probe because I’m mature like that. I showed up to the consultation with the physical therapist, government subsidized sonde in hand, and answered all sorts of embarrassing questions that sounded only slightly better with a French accent.
“OK, now undress and hop up on the exam table,” the physical therapist said, as if she hadn’t just told me to get naked in the middle of the room.
I looked around for a changing room or even a thin, paper gown. Nothing. She expected me to drop my drawers right there and shimmy over to the table? My American modesty paralyzed me.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Um, no, um…” I glanced around and my eyes landed on the probe.
“Oh, don’t worry. We won’t be using la sonde today. I’ll just evaluate your situation and make recommendations for improvement.”
Like a face lift. Except not for your face.
I disrobed and managed to get through the appointment, squeezing out a few Kegels as she watched and took notes.
“Great job! I’ll see you next week. Don’t forget la sonde!”
In your dreams, lady. Between the demands of caring for a newborn and re-watching every episode of Scrubs, I decided to prioritize my remaining time off work and skip the supervised Kegel sessions. (And, still the mature one, I had Mika call to cancel my appointment.)
Two years later, after Stella was born, I didn’t even contemplate perineal re-education classes. I didn’t need a physical therapist to tell me you could throw a saucisse down my hallway. I would do my Kegels in the comfort of my own home, this time binge-watching House of Lies while cuddling with my second bundle of joy.
Thinking all the unpleasantness of labor, delivery, and vaginal exercises was behind me, I returned to work eager for conversation with other adults.
“Welcome back!” my boss’s father said, kissing each cheek in the French custom. “We’re glad you’re here.”
“Thanks, it’s good to be back. Well, I better get to work!”
“Hold on. Do you have a second? I need to ask you something important.”
“Of course,” I replied, ready for whatever new project he would throw at me.
“Do you know what a perineum is?”
The clattering of keyboards in the open floor plan office screeched to a halt.
“Um, yes.” What did this have to do with work? Where was he going with this?
“And do you understand the importance of re-educating it after childbirth? Because it’s really important. My wife didn’t and…”
Tuning out was my only coping mechanism against this uncomfortable dialogue. This affront on my modesty. If only I could
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