You say po-tay-to

Picture, if you will, a potato.

It's not a pretty potato.  Not the kind multi-starred chefs would serve up as is, whole, lightly grilled with some olive oil and rosemary.

No.  This potato is the dumpy kind.  Its color is slightly off.  It has sprouty bits in several places.  And instead of being nice and evenly oval, it's got lumps and bumps all over.  It might still be good to eat, perhaps in a mash with a nice pad of butter, but it certainly isn't a looker.

You've got it?  Good.

Now imagine we take this potato, and we run it through the spin cycle.

At this point, you're getting a pretty good sense of what I feel like after my second session of my new personal-trainer-approved fitness regime.

Apparently, it's meant to give me some muscles and make me look thinner.  A lofty goal, certainly, and one I could get really behind if only I could still walk.  Or stand.  Or tie my shoelaces.

Coming back down to earth

Let me paint a picture for you.

Res, in her new yellow adidas sports top and black mini shorts (bought in the sales), stands contemplating the ocean.  She is about to go on a 7km run along the coast, and she feels pretty good about herself.  Sure, it isn't a half marathon, but given that she's been nursing her knee for three months, 7km in hot weather is entirely respectable.  Besides, the yellow of her top is showing off her golden tan superbly, and her legs look remarkably long in these shorts.  Long for a midget, anyway.

So off she goes, iPod blaring.  All the way around the harbour.  Down the promenade.  Along the beach.  She's at 2.5km now and hitting her stride.  On the sand, fat people are eating donuts and making her feel incredibly healthy and sporty, kind of like Madonna.  But younger.  And less scary.

Then up ahead she spies a low, chain-link fence separating the path from the road, where she is heading.  She has seen this fence before.  She has even gone over the fence before.  It is at mid-calf height - not overtly threatening.  So, without another thought (except maybe at how good her legs look doing this), she does a graceful little jump over the top of the chain.

And splatters on the ground.

Hard.

What the f***???? is her first thought.  Her second thought is: ouch.  But in capitals.  Like this: OUCH.  And with more expletives.

After what feels like an hour of lying face-down on the pavement, a bemused group a strangers come to examine the damage.

"Didn't you see the fence?" is their helpful commentary.

Eventually, they get her to an upright position, dragging her up by her armpits.  She doesn't feel so much like Madonna anymore.  Naturally, she isn't organized enough to have a phone with her, so she walks the 2.5km back, willing herself not to look down at her legs.

The bottom line:
- one recently restored left knee now scraped, bloody, swollen and blue;
- one right shin double its original size, and likely to turn a variety of nasty shades over the next month or more;
- one large, oozing, puffy, swollen welt on her left hand, making all activities requiring the use of two hands (like eating with proper table manners) rather entertaining.

Not to mention a shattered ego.

Score

In World Cup football, women rule.

What, you don't believe me?  I thought I'd taught you never to disagree with a litigator...

Here's the proof.  Yesterday I call a fine beer-drinking establishment of central Paris to book a table for the France-Uruguay game (the opening salvo for the much-maligned Blues).  There's little hope, I think to myself, the game starts in four hours.  But lo and behold, a table is procured.

When Miss Hermes and I arrive at the said establishment, it turns out we have the best seat in the house.  Our own private television, a table by the open window, and a waiter who will bend over backwards (often over the bodies of sweaty football fans) to indulge our every whim (beer-related, that is).

Add to that the shy but indubitably flirtatious glances and smiles showered upon us as the Blues fail, yet again, to score a goal, and you'll have to agree, I was right.

During World Cup madness, it pays to be a woman.

At least it's better than being Nicolas Anelka (pardon the French football joke - it won't happen again.)

PS: What do you think of my new template?  Pretty spiffy, eh?!

Un pied devant l'autre

Tomorrow is the big day. The day I run 21.1 kilometres for no obvious reason.

I'm actually feeling rather stressed.

Which is silly, of course. It's not like this actually matters to anybody. It's not like an exam or a job interview or something important. Running the half marathon will not make me smarter, richer, a better writer, more popular, prettier, or find me the love of my life (unless he runs really slowly too; in which case I probably don't want to go out with him anyway).

But it's mine. In a time when I have no job, no job prospects, no book, no apartment, and no boyfriend, I have this. This potential glimmer of accomplishment.

So I better not screw it up and fail before the finish line.

Oh God.

I think I'm going to be sick.

To be continued...

(do not fret, dear readers, once the race is over I will be sure to update you on all my travels, including through the lovely landscapes of Victoria, and tell you a funny little story about social networking...)

Forever a J

The good thing about exponentially increasing the number of hours one stays awake, is one has lots of time to make lots of plans. Especially if one is a planner, like yours truly.

Some of the plans, concocted in the dead of night while lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling rather sorry for myself, are best not acted upon, or shared in these pages.

But some of the plans are totally fabulous.

First, there are lots of plans for the coming chapters of my book. Many of which will be stealing unashamedly from real life (my own and whoever else's I feel like borrowing from). So this means the writing is going well and I feel confident today. Doubt be damned, my book is going to kick some serious New York Times Bestseller List ass.

And then there's the slightly more fool-hardy plan of running the Paris half marathon in March. Almost a year to the day since I was hospitalized for... well... not breathing. Poetic, isn't it. In honour of that anniversary I'm also raising funds for a respiratory disease charity, but you will be spared the link here since it has my real name on it!

Anyways, I started the training today in the absolutely stunning Bois de Vincennes. How is it possible that I had never been there before? I feel truly embarrassed. It was beautiful, sunny, full of pretty horses and there's a rather nice-looking castle there too. Although to be fair, by the end of the 11 or 12-odd kilometers I couldn't care less about the park or the horses or the castle or anything else really other than my rather painful thighs. Ah well, almost four months to go. It will be fine. I think...

Black cats and running hats

Friday the 13th is usually a good day for me. In an ironic, backwards sort of way (much like my life), those days tend to bring me luck, good news, and happiness.

Yesterday's version was a bit of a mixed bag. Actually, to be completely honest and quit the sugar-coating, it was completely f***ing awful. One of those days you want to erase straight off the calendar, going at it until the paper rips and your fingers are sore. But the day did end with good friends and a cocktail, so it wasn't a complete loss.

Today was a quiet, studious day, a large part of which was devoted to recovering from the night before (I said Friday ended with a cocktail, I never said there weren't several others that preceded it). And writing. Lots of writing. I am now ready to move on to Chapter 4 and, the abominable first chapter aside, I'm pretty happy with what I have so far. Which means there are two chapters I like. So yes, I'm not dancing the happy dance yet, but things could be worse (it could be yesterday again).

In other news, tomorrow is the day of the big run for Houston Hottie and I (you knew she had to be around somewhere; where there is any kind of silver lining in a crisis, there is Houston Hottie.) Anyways, tomorrow is the day when the two of us brave the wind and the rain and the brimstone of Hyde Park and run our little socks off for 10 whole kilometers. Watching the ever-receding backsides of 950 runners ahead of us...

But as they say, it's not whether you win or lose, it's whether you look good in your sweatpants that counts.

How'm'I doin'?

When I was a lawyer, we had performance reviews. Sometimes. When the partners could be bothered. And they typically went somewhere along the lines of: "You're billing 30% above the 2400hr target. That's decent enough. You still have a job. Do better next year, though."

Consulting therefore came as a bit of a shock. Here, feedback is the maître mot. Of course, there are the bi-annual reviews, and the end-of-project evaluations. But there are also the weekly team "how can we be better" sessions, the extra bonus-round one-on-one "tell me what's wrong with me" sob-fests and my personal favourite, the "immediate feedback". Yes, in consulting, yelling at a team-member who has just screwed up and cost you hours of work and condemned you to a late-night dinner of plastic-tasting sushi under painful neon lights is not called "bitching", it's "feedback". As in: "Hey, here's some immediate feedback. You're a dummass and I hope you get fired. We cool?" I love it.

What they don't tell you is you can get completely hooked on feedback. You start craving more and more of it until, like a junkie strung up on heroin, you are completely incapable of functioning without it.

And so, in my weekly 7am pilates session, I now find myself harassing my poor instructor like a needy 3 yr-old: "Is my navel getting closer to my spine? How about now? And is my ribcage soft enough? What about my horizon? Am I stretching my horizon in the right direction through my knees? Tatiana? Hello?"

I'm jammin'

People who know me will tell you that I'm not much of a gym girl. Mostly because I'm a lazy cow who can always think of better things to do than exercise (and yes, watching old episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 dubbed in French counts). Also, I don't like gyms. They're invariably smelly and people look ugly in them and the lighting doesn't do me any favours and honestly, having to shower in front of loads of naked girls may be your fantasy, but it's not mine.

Nonetheless, exercise must be had, especially when one is: a) quitting smoking, and b) stuffing one's face with disgusting sandwiches and butter-filled pastries all day in a depressing team room.

So, as I have previously noted in these pages, I have joined a gym. And it's not so bad, really. I mean sure, it's filled with gay men and girls who look like they could beat me up with their pinkie finger, and it's more "dive bar grunge" than "health spa chic", but it's right next to my flat (meaning I can shower at home) and the classes are fantastic.

I tested my first class today: Body Jam. Probably the best exercise I've had in a very long time (ok, that's not saying much, but still it's really good exercise). And it's essentially a dance class, which makes it much more palatable for exercise-phobes like myself. During one hour, the teacher mixes up hip-hop, salsa, Bob Fosse-esque cabaret, etc. and makes sure you never, ever stop moving. I was having an absolutely fabulous time until we had to turn to face the mirrors, and I realized that instead of the ultimate hip-hop babe I thought I was, I looked like a Park Avenue princess who took a wrong turn on her way to ballet...

Whatever. I'm cool on the inside.

For the Glory

Once every four years I get the chance to indulge in one of my favourite activities, namely becoming a couch potato, regardless of the weather outside, to watch the Olympics. From judo to swimming to fencing to archery to kayaking to whatever else the television programmers decide to throw at me, I watch and enjoy it all. I can't help thinking that here are the real athletes. It's one thing to dedicate yourself to your sport, with all the training and risk of injury that implies, when you make millions in endorsements and become a world-wide star. But for the athletes at the Olympics, there is no money or fame on the line (with the possible rare exception of Michael Phelps-types). They all have other jobs to pay the bills, no one will recognize them in the street, and they will never peddle sodas, shoes, cereal or razors on national television. And still they train, sweat, and suffer just because they love their sport and that's what they do. It's a beautiful thing. And so, despite the paucity of medals on the French side so far, I remain glued to the screen to catch their 15 minutes of glory.

This is my last full day of indulgence however, as tomorrow I head south to witness (literally) another impressive display, namely one of my best friends getting married. Despite the massive writer's block which refuses to lift and threatens to cause me great embarrassment when it comes to the speech-making, I am happy to participate in another joyous event involving one of my close friends (all of whom have recently either gotten hitched or procreated, in a kind of avalanche of growing up which so far has passed me by).

Then it will be time for a final two weeks of holiday in the sun on the beautiful Côte d'Azur before C-Day, i.e. the day I launch my attempt at becoming a consultant.

Picture Time

I realize it's been a while since I've provided photographic evidence (embarrassing or otherwise) of my time here at INSEAD, so I have come online today determined to right that wrong. Also, I haven't been feeling verbally prolific and it's about time for another post so... this is my lazy response to public demand.

First up, the lovely home I've made for myself in P4:




And the view from my window when I woke up on Monday and realized it had snowed properly for the first time this year. In April.



And then there are the photos from Barcelona, with the outrageous-and-still-undefeated INSEAD boys and girls rugby teams... spicing things up on the pitch and in Barcelona's finest culinary establishments.



In other news, recruitment season carries on, painfully for most of us. The eager anticipation has given way to interview and ding fatigue, and it is now with sad, resigned faces that we go off to meet our executioners - uh, I mean interviewers.

In answer to a question posted on these pages last week, no, the recruitment situation is not THAT bad. But it's not that good, either. Given the events of these past few months, banks are essentially not hiring, which means a lot of dashed hopes and increased competition for the remaining jobs. Consulting firms are out in force, but the offers have been few and far between so far. That being said, the "top 3" are still interviewing so we'll see what happens there.

In terms of industry jobs (i.e. everything that's not banking or consulting), we're not quite sure what the situation is. The big multinationals come present on campus, but in a few cases they seem to have very much limited their hiring (internships only, certain geographical areas only) as compared to previous years. The process is more opaque in this area than for consulting, so really it's hard to say whether finding a job in industry has become more difficult. So we keep our fingers crossed.

In my own little personal journey, I finally experienced the pain and suffering that is the consulting interview. Needless to say, it did not go well, which tends to confirm my impression that other avenues are probably better suited to me. The silver lining, however, is that I finally feel like I'm "part of the gang", having now also been subjected to mindless calculation exercises and out-of-left-field questions about industries I know nothing about, coupled with the "oh-my-gosh-have-you-ever-even-practiced-case-interviews" look of disbelief from the hardened interviewer (the answer to that is yes, by the way) and the ensuing feeling of confusion and despair when you walk out of a gruelling 1.5 hr session feeling like you did in 2nd grade when the teacher called on you and you didn't know the answer and everyone laughed.

Fortunately, there are friends, crepes, and plenty of bottles of cider to go around and make you feel better afterwards. And then there's always next week, with more interviews (including at least one that will not involve calculating percentages while standing on your head and solving a rubix cube).

Fling a Ding Ding

Ah, the highs and lows of the INSEAD life...

Last weekend about 200 of us found ourselves in Barcelona for the annual "Spring Fling", an MBA sports tournament organised by IESE. It was interesting comparing the INSEAD contingent to the other schools; sure, I'm biased, but I did get the definite impression that we were a) more diverse and b) more relaxed (many of us had never played our chosen sport before, but more than made up for it in team spirit and a sense of fun). We were also much more ready to party the night away (though we paid for it on the trip home!) In fact, the whole weekend felt very much like a gigantic INSEAD party that the other schools had the privilege to attend - and most of them didn't. Perhaps we're a little intimidating. All in all, a very good weekend was had by everyone involved, despite a few (mostly rugby-related) injuries.

And then we get back to P4. The age of dings. I won't explain here what a ding is, I think every other blogger has already done so. Needless to say it has resulted in more than a few long faces around campus as company after company reject INSEAD students who, until now, had been told that they were fabulous and the elite of global business community. I was lucky enough to get a ding to call my own yesterday, having missed out on the fun until now due to my not having actually applied to anything (my network-oriented job search is not so much ding-based as you'll-just-never-hear-from-us-again-based). Apparently, "the criteria that [Ding & Co] have put forward do not really correspond to [my] competencies". Ouch.

My friends and fellow comrades-in-arms, I leave you with these words by Arthur Conan Doyle:

"When such men, who are beyond hope and fear, begin in their dim minds to see the source of their woes, it may be an evil time for those who have wronged them. The weak man becomes strong when he has nothing, for then only can he feel the wild, mad thrill of despair."

A Week in the Life of P2

Sorry it's been a while. If you knew what a typical INSEAD week looks like these days, though, you'd understand. In fact, let me give you a guided tour of a fairly standard week in my life:

Saturday: (we start here because all good things start on a Saturday, in my book)
No class today. This is very exciting. Lots of reading to do, though... slightly less exciting. Plus there's rugby practice (and trust me, it's cold). Then there's the frantic last minute shopping for essential accessories for whatever themed party is going on. Tonight, it's the Montmelian Ball 7 Sins extravaganza. My sin of choice for the evening: greed. Goes very nicely with all the champagne. Mmmmm...

Sunday: The day of rest. Well sort of. Very little time to actually recover from last night's party before I realize I better finish the reading in case Jake Cohen (accounting superstar and my worst nightmare) decides to call on me. And you know he will.

Monday: We kick off the day with Accounting at 8.30 am before running off to Finance and an all-afternoon-long CV workshop. By this point I'm already exhausted but I have rugby practice again. (Yes, dear friends, you weren't misreading earlier, I have actually joined the women's rugby team. Laugh all you want). It's even colder now than it was on Saturday.

Tuesday: Long day of class today largely spent discussing power tools, until it's time for our section's long-awaited champagne party. As co-organiser, I naturally feel obligated to get there early and drink as much champagne as possible. According to all those surveyed, as well as the tell-tale glazed expressions the next morning, the party was a huge success.

Wednesday: L'Oreal comes to school today to present it's e-strat business game. My team is now all set and ready to shine in the glitzy world of cosmetics. We quickly come back down to earth in POM and Accounting. In the evening, my study group spends a couple hours playing with single-server queue theory before devouring a delicious meal at a local Michelin 1* restaurant (La Table Saint Juste, I recommend it).

Thursday: Heavy class schedule today, and I'm determined to go to bed early tonight. But first we have to learn about Black-Scholes and apply it stock options for our group assignment in finance. And then there's people having drinks at Aussie Bar and, well, life is short, I'll sleep next year.

Friday: Today is big scary exam results day. If you want to know how I did, well, I can't tell you. INSEAD non-disclosure policy, you understand. Things have been happily coordinated, and we end up having our exam results distributed in a 1-hr window from a single, small office during class time. Needless to say there were suddenly quite a few empty seats in what is usually a packed amphi for Taylor Randall's one-man-POM-comedy routine. And then we still have to sit through 3 hours of LO until 7pm before finally being able to run screaming through the halls on our way to the closest bar (seeking either celebration or comfort...)

And then it starts all over again...

Highlights for the upcoming week include: the INSEAD Dash on Wednesday morning (8am), two group assignments to prepare, auditions for Cabaret, more rugby practice, and a weekend trip to Barcelona with the team to play against LBS and IESE...

Girls, Girls, Girls

Thought that would get your attention.

Anyway, a big congrats to all the girls in the INSEAD team who ran La Parisienne today. Despite the heat, the crowds, and general exhaustion.... we did it! (A big sloppy thank you kiss as well to our unparalleled boys' support team and picnic providers.)

And, choses promises choses dues:

Dazed and Confused

The reality of the MBA has finally hit home. Hard.

Social life at INSEAD being directly (and very much negatively) correlated to the level of difficulty of the classes, the drawn faces around campus are now the result of spending all night grappling with stats and valuation exercises rather than excessive alcohol consumption and dancing to Mika. This was not helped by the fact that we had our first Econ quiz this week. Still, we managed to get through it and the end of the week is looking decidedly cheerier.

Today was the Career Fair, meaning a free afternoon for us P1s not quite prepared to think about jobs yet. That, and the fact that the sun came out in force, resulted in the left-hand side of my face turning a rather odd shade of purply-pink. Not quite the look I was going for in preparation for the Shangri-La party tomorrow night, the theme of which is Quentin Tarantino movie characters, not bizarre suntanning accidents. Shame.

Then it's off to Paris this weekend, for a little friends-and-family time, as well as the sporting event of the century. No, not the Rugby World Cup (which I really would prefer you didn't mention), but the INSEAD all-girls running team's first competitive outing. In the name of charity and school spirit, I have accepted to humiliate myself by joining some of my sportier female colleagues for La Parisienne, a 6.5km run through scenic Paris. Embarrassing photos of us (well, me) looking like we're about to collapse will presumably follow. I can tell you're on the edge of your seats...

Until then, I must leave you to bash myself about the head with a calculator some more.

At last!

Nothing like a nice long run with ipod blaring followed by Sunday brunch with a friend to perk a blogger up. (on the subject of running: I am signed up for the Paris 20k in October, if anyone wants to join me and form an unofficial "INSEAD" team, let me know)

And then, today, I finally got the news I was waiting for: Fontainebleau it is! I am now officially an INSEAD J'08 admitted student. This means I can get started on all the fun admin stuff and finding either a loan or a great wad of cash under the sofa cushions... First step, though, before I end up spending P1 in a tent on the chateau grounds, is sorting accomodation. I have about 5 minutes to decide whether I want to live 20k from school and brave wild boars on winding country roads at 3am every day or if I'm prepared to spend a bit more to live in the town center - decisions, decisions.

Don't panic, don't panic, don't -

Still nothing. My stress levels are through the roof. Probably without reason, but still... I realise that my classmates and fellow bloggers do not understand what is happening to me, because they were clever enough not to wait until the last application round (I did have my reasons, namely, before the final round, I had this whole other life going on, one in which I was actually a productive member of society...) So let me explain.

Last week, I get the call that I've been admitted. (Fantastic!) After going on for 10 minutes about how wonderful my application was (really?!) I am told that it would be very nice if instead of starting in Fontainebleau, I went to Singapore. (Oh?) Apparently it's for my own good. (Ah.) Well, not actually, it's a question of there not being enough room. (Thought so.) So, what do I think? (Honestly, what I think is something along the lines of "Akgrstyapàidng%*$?????")
I hesitated, really I did. But then, I figured that since I was paying a not insignificant sum of money to this school, I should maybe stick to my guns on the preferred campus thing. Especially because I totally fell for the whole "we can't force you, it's completely your call" speech. Super, my call is Fontainebleau, then.

And that's where things all of a sudden got tricky. Lots of humming and hahing, well, we'll see what we can do, calls have to be made, stars checked for proper alignment, a few sacrificial lambs slaughtered, you understand... But we'll get back to you very soon, in a couple days, don't worry about it.

And still nothing. Hence the stress levels. Initially, it was just stress about how this would delay my loan application, my search for housing, my introduction into the NV holy land, my ability to get through any of the pre-reading (I don't even know what the pre-reading is yet? Fellow bloggers, help?!) Well, now the stress has escalated to: "oh jeez, I should have just said ok to Singapore, now they don't like me, I've messed up their numbers, they think I'm not a team player, that I have an attitude problem, they're going to change their mind about my admission and I'm going to have to go back to the job I was doing before and my former colleagues will look upon me with pity and disgust and my life will end...". They can't do that, right? Right????

(please excuse this interruption in our programming while I hyperventilate into a paper bag)

On a happier note, I was treated to culinary heaven yesterday by my (perhaps prematurely?) proud parents, AND I passed right by Raphael Nadal on the street. That made me feel better. Especially the dessert... and the foie gras... and the wine... and the close presence of a major tennis star... Well, it made me feel better yesterday, anyway.