Over the River and Through the Woods

Plus some security checks at Heathrow.

I found out about an hour ago that I’m in for not one but two Passover seders with 14 old ladies, one of whom is my grandmother. Yes, I’m off to Miami for a flying visit for Passover, and as it’s been years since I’ve been to two seders (a couple of times in England I haven’t been to any), I forgot that that’s what most Jews do.

Two seders means two big, long, (sort of) boring meals where I have no choice about what’s served to me and most of it I don’t even like very much. (Gefilte fish? Unless it’s homemade – which this one won’t be because these old ladies are just a little too old for that – not so much. Chopped liver? Not unless it’s my grandma’s homemade version, and, um, see previous sentence.) So you pick at the food a bit and what’s the problem, you ask?

If you’re asking, clearly you don’t have a Jewish grandmother.

I will be nagged about what I don’t eat and nagged about what I do eat. Every morsel I do or don’t put in my mouth will be commented upon, probably multiple times. It’s enough to make a person eat. Or if you’re me, binge.

On food I don’t even particularly like.

I’m honestly not sure what the solution is. I think I could have just about handled one night of it, but two somehow seems impossible. Much, much worse than when some gym instructor says “another 30 seconds” when you’re already in agony – and then after that announces a whole other minute.

Why did I choose to go this weekend? Well, I haven’t seen my grandmother since October – the longest I’ve gone in years without seeing her. It’s not an ideal time to go (and last-minute ticket prices aren’t ideal), but I looked at my diary and realized if I didn’t go this weekend I might not make it until July. Weekend duty. My birthday. Cannes. A friend’s 40th. Glastonbury. Isle of Wight. And my grandmother is 89. Her body has been slowly, painfully giving out in the past couple of years. I usually manage not to cry when I say goodbye to her, but the tears always fall somewhere between the walk down the hallway of her floor and my pulling out of the parking lot. I’m never sure I’m going to see her again.

I’d like to enjoy her company – at times my grandmother can be wickedly funny and wildly entertaining – and not just think of getting through the weekend like a trial. The question is: How?

* * *

Diet Quote of the Day

“I thought the G in GI stood for Greek.”
--BN2, on the glycemic index diet his parents are following. (He honestly thought it looked like they were eating a lot of Mediterranean type food, which they probably are.)

* * *

Tonight I was supposed to have a date with a very cute guy I met at a champagne tasting last week. Yes, the same champagne tasting I attended with BN2.

No, I didn’t swap numbers with him in front of BN2 or anything – I’m not that tacky. But if BN2 is going to carouse – well, I decided I’d exercise my own carousing (or at least, non-exclusivity) option from time to time. It’s gotten a bit flabby from disuse over the past few months.

This guy – if I suggested we call him asshat would that be too much of a spoiler? – was cute, tall, Cambridge-educated, and funny. Clearly it would have been way too much to ask for him also not to have been a complete flake or, erm, asshat.

We were supposed to meet at 7 p.m., a time he confirmed with me in the early afternoon today. (I actually was thinking he was going to flake when I got the email.) At 6:30 p.m. – the point at which many people would have been on the Tube (and thus without mobile phone service) – he sent a text saying he was stuck at work and could we make it another night? No warning earlier in the day about a big deadline or any such thing, and he’s not a lawyer or journalist, the sort of people who routinely do have to work way late way beyond their control.

Asshat. It’s a Friday night. Not that I cared much – I have to pack and be up at 4:30 a.m. to catch my flight.

* * *

The night of the champagne tasting – which alert readers (Bueller? Bueller?) may recall is also the night I binged (I know I should hyperlink but for some reason I have to code it myself on this computer, and I’m lazy) – BN2 mentioned my “trim midriff.” Yes, those are the words he used: “Trim midriff.”

BN2 is not the most objective source, so I took it as something nice to hear, but nothing more. But Thursday a totally random woman I've never seen before at Pilates – and an English woman (so not prone to chatting to strangers) at that – asked me how long I’d been coming to the studio. Why was she asking? “You’re so tiny around here,” she said, pointing to my, erm, midriff.

I left Pilates and went to a cocktail party to celebrate the birthday of one of my favorite London boutiques. Where, apparently giddy and disoriented from the headiness of anyone referring to my middle section as tiny -- I promptly allowed myself to be convinced to purchase a pair of white jeans. Yes, white jeans. A garment that highlights – no, spotlights – every single flaw, both of body and finance (they’re not meant for public transport, among other things). Just call me Elizabeth Hurley. Or call me crazy. How on earth did I let myself get talked into a pair of white jeans?