Don't mess with me, je suis un New Yorker.

I weighed myself today.

Why oh why I felt the need to weigh myself after 3 entire weeks of eating pain au chocolats, ice cream, and butter, is absolutely beyond me. But nevertheless, I did it.

Then I went for a run.

A really, really long run.
(Okay, it was 15 minutes. But it counts as double, as excercising at all in Paris is so uncommon, I felt obliged to give myself some extra points.)

With the sneaking sensation that I am beginning to resemble Snufagufalus, I am attempting to reform my diet...while in Paris; the land of boulangeries, butter, ice cream (yes, they have that too), and steak frites.

Why did I weigh myself again?

I guess I could always do as the Parisiens do. Which in this case means drawing from the three major food groups: Mojitoes, Baguettes, & Cigarettes.

But alas, my boyfriend has threaten to break up with me if I so much as touch a cigarette.

Boo. What's the deal? I thought he was French! Don't I win a free pass with that one!

Apparently not.

But despite my current body woes, Paris is continuing to open itself up to me.

I had a lovely cheese and wine party at Parc Monceau with some girls from class-2 Swiss, 1 Canadien, 1 Dutch, et moi- l'Americaine.

And Bastille Day was eventful...er, I mean, fun.

Well, that's break this one down. We attended the Bals des Pompiers, the Firemen's Ball. Basically the firemen of Paris transform their firehouses into hot dance clubs for the night. Free admission, booze galore, and hot, young firemen running the joint. What's not to love, right? Edouard and I danced are tushies off. It was a gorgeous night, and it seemed like all of Paris turned out for the occasion.

Now comes the eventful part.

Edouard and I were taking a break from the mass of sweaty dancing people, when a couple smashes into us from the side. I mean, we really took a hard it. Obviously plastered, we decided to leave them alone. But then, the guy crashed into me again, spitting his already incomprehensible-to-me, but-even-worse-because-he's-drunk, French words in my face.

His girlfriend quickly comes to his defense apologizing, "Je suis desole, Je suis desole! Il est saoul, il est saoul!"

"I know that he is drunk, but just stop smashing into us."

She looks at me inquisitively.

"Quoi? Quoi?"

"Stop smashing into us! Ca va, ca va? Just ARRET!"

At that very moment her boyfriend decides to smash his hand into my face.

And it was here, my friends, that I almost-almost, found myself in a fist fight with a drunk, French, POLICE officer, on Bastille Day.

"Il est un policier! Il est un policier!" she kept saying to me. All I could understand in the moment, was "police", and I wasn't sure if she wanted me to call the police or what. But then it quickly dawned on me that the police were indeed already present. Smashing me in the face!

Luckily at this moment, Edouard, calm as ever, told me to walk away and he handled the situation perfectly. By giving him a nice punch in the jaw!!!

No, not really. But that would have been totally cool to write in this blog.

As civilized French citizens, they talked it out. And as I watched from the corner, my blood still pumping with adrenaline, I thought a few things.

First being, I know better then to involve myself in any confrontation with a drunk guy at a party. What was I thinking?

But mostly I thought, that's right Monsieur Policeman.

I'm a New Yorker. Don't mess with me.