 | I moved to Paris last year. It is beautiful. The architecture is beautiful. The people are beautiful. Most of them have enviable figures and wardrobes. They stalk the pavement in front of those lovely buildings like it was a catwalk. |
I knew that the exterior must have been supported by a formidable interior, but in the Parisians’ case, I thought they might have invisible underwear. There were no panty lines or bra straps. Nobody tugged at their jeans or extracted wedgies. The only underwear I ever saw was a tasteful color-coordinated bra peering out from a sheer blouse, or a lacy camisole peeking out from an off-the-shoulder sweater. No panty lines anywhere. It was a mystery.
Then I went to yoga.
It was co-ed yoga in a big attic that looked like you’d knocked down the wall between Mimi and Rodolfo’s apartment and that kid’s from Ratatouille. Crisscrossed wooden beams, darkened by the centuries, supported the roof.
People came to yoga in their work clothes and unrolled their mats and then, to my horror, they stripped down and put on their yoga pants and tank tops. Right in front of me. This never happened in the YMCA back in California.
I lowered my Puritan eyes to the floor, but not before the mystery was revealed. Thongs were everywhere. Well-fitted undergarments conquered back fat and muffin tops. No matter the person’s size, support structures were in place. Lace and boxers and panty-hose, oh my.
Class began. Our mats were close together. Sometimes we bumped hands getting into tree pose. We murmured désolé and moved on. Everybody concentrated, stretching and reaching and working with what nature gave them.
As we finally lay on our backs in corpse pose, I looked at the beams holding up the ceiling. They were beautiful, strong and ancient and darkened by time. You can only see beams from inside the building. They support the outside.
Everybody namaste-ed and people began getting dressed. They sat on their mats and demurely removed their stretchy pants and put their jeans and panty-hose back on, going into bridge pose or standing up for the final tug over their derriers. Women faced the wall and put their lacy black bras back on, some swabbing out their armpits with baby wipes. Underwear became invisible as outerwear covered it up.
We filed down the long staircase and out onto the sidewalk, leaving all visible undergirdings of the building and the clothing behind. Friends kissed each other goodbye, strangers just left.
If you live in Paris long enough, you get to be in on the mystery.
Then I went to yoga.
It was co-ed yoga in a big attic that looked like you’d knocked down the wall between Mimi and Rodolfo’s apartment and that kid’s from Ratatouille. Crisscrossed wooden beams, darkened by the centuries, supported the roof.
People came to yoga in their work clothes and unrolled their mats and then, to my horror, they stripped down and put on their yoga pants and tank tops. Right in front of me. This never happened in the YMCA back in California.
I lowered my Puritan eyes to the floor, but not before the mystery was revealed. Thongs were everywhere. Well-fitted undergarments conquered back fat and muffin tops. No matter the person’s size, support structures were in place. Lace and boxers and panty-hose, oh my.
Class began. Our mats were close together. Sometimes we bumped hands getting into tree pose. We murmured désolé and moved on. Everybody concentrated, stretching and reaching and working with what nature gave them.
As we finally lay on our backs in corpse pose, I looked at the beams holding up the ceiling. They were beautiful, strong and ancient and darkened by time. You can only see beams from inside the building. They support the outside.
Everybody namaste-ed and people began getting dressed. They sat on their mats and demurely removed their stretchy pants and put their jeans and panty-hose back on, going into bridge pose or standing up for the final tug over their derriers. Women faced the wall and put their lacy black bras back on, some swabbing out their armpits with baby wipes. Underwear became invisible as outerwear covered it up.
We filed down the long staircase and out onto the sidewalk, leaving all visible undergirdings of the building and the clothing behind. Friends kissed each other goodbye, strangers just left.
If you live in Paris long enough, you get to be in on the mystery.
