My husband James and I cycled next to each other on stationary bikes at our local Paris gym. “Have you noticed all the fire fighters?” he asked.
I shook my head. How had I missed that?
“The scene in the locker room was like something out of a gay porn film,” he said. “Firefighters stripping out of their rescue gear.”
Thirty minutes later, I caught sight of them hovered around the bicep curl and hip extensor machines. They were dressed in identical gym uniforms of clingy shirts outlining every chest muscle and minimal shorts emblazoned with the logo “Sapeurs Pompiers Paris.” Parisian fire fighters. I dare you to to come up with three hotter words.
I shouldn’t have been surprised that their outfits were not only athletic and practical. They were elegant, stylish, and color-coordinated. Classic heroic chic.
James and I heaved and grunted, getting more stinky and sweaty, as usual. The fire fighters seemed to enjoy everyone’s stares. I can’t have been the only person imagining what would happen if I “accidentally” dropped a weight on my foot, necessitating an urgent rescue from half a dozen men trained in mouth-to-mouth rescusitation. Men who, because their job is to save lives, are strong and competent. Men who, because they’re Parisian, are impeccably groomed and dressed. Where else, but in this belle ville, can you get that combination?
Too funny. I too used to have a gang of firefighters come to my gym. I was less moved than you by their ridiculous level of Greek-god-like physical fitness (although no doubt more jealous). Not only did they hog the machines, but they effortlessly threw off multiple series of whatever exercise came to mind, loaded with weights far above what most of us mortals could manage. Some of the local gym muscle-men would compete with them in terms of the weight, but they would dramatically puff and strain whereas the firemen barely broke a sweat.
More amusing still was the spectacle I regularly observed when my son was little. There was a fire station around the corner from his elementary school, and just as the parents were arriving at school with the kiddies, the firemen would jog by on a regular morning run (clingy T-shirts and minimal shorts, like at the gym). The way the young mothers would drop all pretense of paying attention to their children in order to swivel their heads and not miss a second of firefighter pulchritude was hilarious. And it never failed.
Deprivation, the only time I get to see local firefighters is when they are wandering around the supermarket buying supplies for dinner, dressed in bureaucratic blue; then they go out to the parking lot and drive off in the hook & ladder truck that has been occupying 3 spaces; wonder how much that cost the taxpayers!
In New York, firemen seem to spend most of their time eating, just like the cops. Hence the waistline.
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