Do-Over, Pretty Please?

I binged last night – at the Chanel Paris-Londres show in London, of all places.

Food at a fashion show? Yes, loads of it, and quite possibly the best I’ve ever seen at a fashion show: duck with fig reduction and sweet potatoes, foie gras with apples, Thai glass noodle salad, Laduree macaroons. (Not that Karl Lagerfeld was eating any of it – he had a butler following him around with a lone glass of diet Coke on a tray. If only I’d had the same!)

It’s been a tough week. Lots of eating out, lots of events, not enough exercise, which is the first part of the panic equation. Then there was alcohol (our office Christmas lunch had been earlier in the day, and then I stupidly had some champagne at the show) combined with despair.

Where did the despair come from? I met the first guy since the Fig that I really, really liked. Not the physicist – he’s an Australian computer programmer. (Who, by the way, also picked me up off the ground. Do I suddenly look like a little Beth doll, accessories not included?) We went out last Thursday, and planned to meet up Sunday before the evening even ended. We met up Sunday and…nothing since, because I’ve managed to screw it up by being a complete and utter nut case.

Don’t tell me that I probably wasn’t as bad as I think, and that he still could call – I know that he isn’t going to. I broke a bunch of rules in the course of those two dates and so decided I’d break another one by contacting him in an attempt to explain what was going on. Of course I just managed to make things worse. Sigh. If only do-overs were granted outside of elementary school playground games.