Thanks to a couple of friends in crisis, an art private viewing followed by enough white wine for me to still be regretting it, and the London premiere of Mission: Impossible 3 (with five plus hours of waiting in the press pen for my four minutes with Tom Cruise, definitely the least glamorous part of my week), I have gotten about 15 hours of sleep total since Monday. So maybe that (and the lack of anything resembling spring) is to blame for my gloomy outlook:
I lost another 4 pounds this week, which I think is partially my new scale trying to get in good with me. I still don’t trust it. Nor do I trust myself with it – every time I see it I want to get on it, just to check. And double check.
Which is slightly ludicrous because I have been at this point before, and I know that I find the numbers at least as frustrating as I find them reassuring. I look at them and wonder why nothing fits differently – the sort of reinforcement I really need.
I know, I know – it’s barely been 2.5 weeks. But I have two seven-hour plane trips in a three-day period followed by a very stressful deadline, then a weekend of what an old colleague of mine used to call Occasions for Sin, followed by my own Occasion for Sin (birthday), followed by the Cannes film festival, for which champagne is a food group, ice cream is the only thing you can grab without waiting on line for hours, and PR types – apparently indoctrinated with the mantra that hungry journalists write grumpier reviews than full ones -- attempt to tame the braying media beast with all manner of treats.
I hate looking at life as events to be gotten through diet unscathed, as opposed to just events, some of which are even supposed to be fun.
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