I give myself crap all the time. I can't seem to get over it...on one hand it's fun to make light of my little belly and the few bands of scars I happen to have over my outer thighs. It's healthy. On the other hand, it's not. Try going in to what Eva and I have labeled "fascist" stores and try to find something for me to even fit into. No, H&M I am not going to try on any of your fucking clothes from the Big and Beautiful section.

I don't have any idea what size I am here. Back home it's 16. 16 is comfy--no need for me to squeeze into 12s and look like bread dough that is rising out of a bowl. If you really want a funny story, ask me about the trip to the gyno where the nurse tells me I have a fat neck. Yes, this really happened.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am not fat. I am ever so slightly girthy. I can still chase balls around, jog when I want to, and walk with the best of them. I have simply moved on from athletic college and high school student, to sendintary computer girl. Of course things are looking up now that I dont' have a car, live in a foreign country, and have started eating salad...Speaking of no car, this is leading up to the point of this entry...the walk home.

Ah...my Flemmish class in Hoboken. If I leave by 25 after 8, I can make it there by 9. I take two trams. I take the number 2 from Albert Park to Zwaantjes and hop on the 12 which takes me to Vlaams 101. aka. Flemmish for Beginners.

Today was beautiful. I had nothing slated for this afternoon but writing a paper for school on Barbara Kruger--of "Your Body is a Battleground" pro-choice fame. So instead of returning on the 12 and then the 2, I walked. Over an hour, through neighborhoods, by parks, over motorways, all on foot.

Everything always looks slightly different when you're used to staring at people trying to avoid staring back at you--I don't have to look through the back side of an advertisment for Belgian chocolate, for one. And the sunshine? Fresh air? Exercize? I listened to the radio on my mobile (a nice perk for a cheap phone) and kept up a nice pace. I smelled flowers. I smiled at little old ladies pulling their shopping bag two-wheelers. I smiled a little kids playing with sticks. I dodged teenagers on bicycles. I blew dead dandilions. (A weed. A seed. A flower.)

And I got the thigh rash. The crotch in my cords too low to provide ample protection from one thigh causing damage to the other. Yes, I rubbed. So much so that I had blistery looking whelps that stood out from my skin as far as 3 stacked nickles. (for my Belgian friends, that would be maybe two 20 cent pieces...not side by side! On top of one another.) I came home and put on shorts which I pulled up under my breasts--just to ensure that the crotch of the shorts didn't dangle.

This is just a simple reminder that if you can walk...do. If it's a nice day? Take advantage of it. There are far too many dismal days in a Belgian or English year to not be thankful for the just-right temperature, sun beating down days. I even made a picnic for dinner--burritos in the park, a little softball catch, tea at home.

So yes, I'm suffering from a bit of irritation...but would I do it again? Of course.