Digging in My Heels

So the weekend before I went to Paris I went to two parties, including one at a Georgian restaurant that included my favorite khachapuri. That Monday evening I went out for drinks. Then I proceeded to spend a week on assignment in Paris, a week that might as well be known as a sea of binges, chocolate, and 500 euro dinners. I returned home to dinner with O and a weekend that included five birthday parties (among the treats I could not resist: Nigella’s lemon pound cake, fresh from the oven).

Then it was off to Ibiza, where I interviewed Penelope Cruz, ended up in the local newspaper, for among other things, eating an orange (must have been a slow news day in Ibiza), and consumed a couple of pieces of manchego cheese and enough champagne to think heading off to Pacha at 3 a.m on a magazine closing night was a good idea. And finally back to London and dinner with a friend I hadn’t seen in months, who emailed news of the dinner booking with the message: No cocktails are not an option. (Why do people say things like that? I hate feeling the need to explain what I eat and drink, or don’t eat and drink.)

Sigh.

I never thought an extra five pounds could feel so heavy – or be so terrifying.

In my defense, I made a good faith effort. I haven’t missed a workout amidst this tidal wave of travelling and disastrous overindulgence. In most cases, I haven’t consumed anywhere near the amount of food I would have a year ago. And I’ve tried to trade off a bit: I had only one piece of khachapuri, instead of the seven I would have eaten last year. In Paris during dinner at Baccarat, I didn’t have a starter or dessert. In preparation for Saturday and Sunday, I had only one drink at the two Friday parties during the five-birthday-party weekend. And at the two Sunday parties, I walked the hour from my flat to Hackney for the first, and while there tried to fill up on vegetables. At the second, I limited myself to one piece of lemon cake.

There are two things that make a gain of five pounds terrifying (and just writing the words is a little terrifying). The first is that not once in my long and checkered diet history have I ever really recovered from a gain of more than a pound.

The second is that life goes on, with no chance for me to wrap myself in a cotton ball and sit on my sofa for a week or two, eating only things for which I know the precise calorie count. Which is all I want to do, as I look at my calendar and see more land mines to dodge: dinners and office picnics and drinks and (mostly) things I should be happy to be doing, instead of worrying about. But in the back of my head, overshadowing everything, is this dark cloud of fear. All day yesterday I felt like bingeing. I walked into a shop to buy a banana and eyed up Bakewell tarts and flapjacks and chocolate and all sorts of things I’d gotten used to (mostly) ignoring.

I’m digging in my heels and reminding myself that my jeans, although snug, still fit – that the tide is not irreversible. Last night I went out with big-drinking friends I see only about once a year, and decided not to drink at all – partly for the calories of the alcohol itself, and partly because drinking seemed a bad idea when I’d been fighting the urge to binge all day. In an hour, I head to an office party that includes some stringers I loathe, and I’ve planned what I’ll order – and planned not drink.

Here’s hoping the scale resumes its downward trend – or at least, doesn’t climb any higher – on Tuesday.