It's a Date

Tonight I went on a date with a guy who picked his teeth. Not with a toothpick, even, but with his fingers. Endlessly. And we hadn't eaten anything.

For me, nights like tonight historically have been binge triggers. I think the urge to eat comes from some primal need to fill the emptiness – the emptiness that is three hours of trying to connect with someone with whom I am not meant (I hope) to connect.

Lest I sound judgmental, it isn’t because of the teeth-picking (and, OK, his stereotypically English teeth). It’s because of so many seemingly insignificant things: the weird way he smiled at me; the awkward long silences (even though he’s a journalist, and journalists are supposed to know how to chat to anybody) he made no attempt to fill.

I first met this guy about two years ago, when I was at one of my smallest adult sizes, Seven For All Mankind and all. I spent the two weeks’ notice I had of this evening worrying that he would be horrified about how much heavier I was, never thinking to consider – until the moment I walked through the door of the Charlotte Street Hotel – that perhaps I might not find him at all attractive. Physically or otherwise.

In the course of our typically British date – four drinks, no food; bill split evenly -- he made a reference to dumping an ex because she didn’t walk fast enough. I couldn't bear another 10 minutes in his company, so -- wearing my adorable Beatrix Ong peep toes -- I made a joke about not walking fast enough and he (graciously?) allowed me to totter off to the Tube alone. Along the way, I passed a Tesco and a McDonalds, among other things, but I ignored them.
Progress. I think.

* * *

As of Tuesday, I've lost 40 pounds. Why, when I look in the mirror, do I feel fatter than ever?

* * *

Yesterday, while I was in Paris doing an interview, I got a call from one of the magazine's fact-checkers in New York.

"We need you to file how to say [a particular word] in Belgian," said Miss Fact-checker, whose job, I might remind you, is to keep errors from creeping into print.

I resisted the urge to tell her that was like asking how to say something in, say, Canadian, and instead said: "Well, do you want it in French or Flemish?"

"I need it in Belgian," she said patiently, as though talking to a small child.

"Right," I said, not at all patiently. "They speak French and Flemish in Belgium."

"Oh," she said. "Let me check on that."