Fair of the Vanities

In one of the many, many lines of hers I wish I could have written, Wendy once described enjoying the continuing compliments about losing weight as vaguely inappropriate, like staying at a party for too long. (No quote marks because I am at the office and my copy of her book is at home.)

So here I am, metaphorically still skulking about considering drinking apricot schnapps (the only liquor left) while one of the hosts has fallen asleep and the token new couple of the evening is snogging in the corner. I lost a pound and a half this week, and suddenly my if-I-even-gained-a-pound-it-wouldn’t-fit pink, black and white coat is loose, I can get into a pair of size 30 Seven jeans, and none other than Friend Bearing Chocolate announced on Friday that I was looking “very slim and elegant.”

How that happened in a week that included two lunches out (including one where – under pressure from a buff male PR who no doubt has the metabolism of the Energizer Bunny – I had half of a slice of chocolate tart with white chocolate ice cream) and three dinners out (including a second date with a foodie and another evening where I sat next to a woman to whom I had to explain that Thackeray’s Vanity Fair was not a compilation of the magazine, but never mind about that), I have no idea. (In my defense, it also included lots of ignoring of the bread basket, plus five days of workouts plus a 12-mile hike Sunday, in the middle of thanks-for-ruining-my-weekend Wino – that would be Amy -- watch.)

I should pause to note that I am actually somewhat grumpy about the 1.5 pound loss – because I’ve been hopping on the scale all week and it was showing a 3 pound loss for a couple of days. Sigh. That should teach me not to weigh in more than once a week.

My next few weeks include a visit from my dad, work trips to Spain (possibly) and Venice (definitely), and a criss-cross across the U.S. in late September, as I have a wedding to attend in Washington DC, a grandma to visit in Miami, work in New York and LA, and possible other places to visit in between. So much as I would like to set ambitious goals of when I’ll reach goal (currently eight pounds away), I think I may have to content myself with holding steady.

• * *

Second date. Yes, I said second date. I didn’t describe the first one because I didn’t want to jinx it, but now I think it’s over, anyway.

He’s a philosopher-turned-computer-programmer who actually suggested a first date that involved dinner – and actually chose a restaurant and booked a table. I had a minor freak out on the way over to meet him. One: The restaurant was where the Fig and I had our second date. Two: I stopped at the pub where the Fig and I first met up to check my makeup. Three: Um. What are we going to talk about for two hours? (Never mind that I can usually talk for England if it’s required.) Four: He’s a computer programmer. See No. 3.

I arrived to find him reading the Economist and – geek that I am – this immediately calmed me down. (Private Eye or the New Yorker would probably have had a similar effect.)

We had fun. It took nearly three weeks to meet up again, and again, it was fun. But… he’s 29, peppered his conversation with multiple references to his plan to move to New York soon, and he’s just all over the place. Which is fun for an evening but not otherwise promising. I scanned in the last 30 pages of my copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude (he lost his copy just before he finished it) and e-mailed it to him to say thanks for dinner – this was the second £100 dinner for which he has picked up the tab – but am not holding my breath.