Oh Frabjous Day

Last night I had with my sister the same conversation about dieting and food we’ve been having for years. She whines about her weight and how hard it is to maintain and describes in almost pornographic detail the French fries/dessert/chocolate/Indian food she ate – then asks how I’m doing with the bingeing (cue circus freak feelings) and then, almost hopefully, how I’m doing with my own weight. What she’s hoping is that I’ve gained.

I listened with half an ear last night to her recitation of Bad Foods Consumed and Bad Foods She’d Like to Consume and Bad Foods I Feel Like She’s Mentioning to Inspire Me to Consume Them. This morning I woke up and suddenly realized: I am the same weight as my sister. That number she mentioned that – although she complains about – sounds so low to me that I can’t imagine ever weighing it? I weigh that now. I can’t even begin to explain how much that set my head spinning.

And then, of course, I immediately wondered if I’d still manage to weigh it the next time I see her. Some things – certain thought patterns – never change. Or not yet, anyway.

* * *

One of the reasons I had only half an ear tuned in to my sister last night was because I was waiting for Bachelor No. 2 to call.

We didn’t talk about Valentine’s Day. We tiptoed right up to the edge, but nobody blinked. He mentioned two friends of ours who he thought left the country – literally – so as to avoid Valentine’s Day. I didn’t point out that he, too, was avoiding it. What I wanted was for him to say definitively that he couldn’t deal with it, or didn’t want to deal with it, or had other plans for Thursday. It was the not knowing I couldn’t handle.

Why didn’t I say anything myself? For the record, I didn’t need a big fuss or a restaurant dinner – it’s just that it’s been years since I was dating anyone on Valentine’s Day, and I would have appreciated the novelty of not spending it either alone or with girlfriends. I knew he wouldn’t know Valentine’s Day was a big deal to me unless I said something, but by saying something, I’d automatically make it a big deal. So I didn’t say anything.

Last week he suggested doing something we’d talked about “on Thursday” – I noted he didn’t refer to it as Valentine’s Day. But the booking he was offered disappeared before he grabbed it. On Wednesday I asked him – casually -- if he’d made other plans. He said he wanted to chill out at home. I felt stung.

Yesterday I had a voicemail on my mobile phone, saying I had a delivery, and when would I be home to receive it?

Not for hours, I said – I had fashion shows and parties to attend for work. In fact, I called the delivery man while waiting to get into the Issa show.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll have the same problem trying to deliver it tomorrow. And I think you’ll want this,” he said.

“What is it?” I asked. I could hardly hear him above the din.

“Flowers,” came the reply.

I didn’t say anything.

“You don’t sound very impressed,” said the delivery man.

“That is the sound of stunned silence,” I said.

Bachelor No. 2 sent a dozen red roses. This morning I emailed a very close friend – one of only two people I’d told how I felt about the whole Valentine’s Day thing – to tell her.

She emailed back promptly: “I think you’ve got a boyfriend.”

* * *

I was seated in the front row in two fashion shows this week. The front row is where the celebrities are seated. It’s where the top editors and most powerful people are seated. It is not anywhere I thought I’d ever get to sit.

At Issa yesterday I watched one of the PRs double-checking a couple of interlopers’ tickets and shooing them to row D or E or – even worse – the standing section. I held my breath, sure she’d come over to me next, because surely there can’t be a fat girl sitting in the front row.

She walked right by me.