Sunday 1 June 2008

Reality Check

And so between my birthday, Cannes, and a few days at BN2’s parents in Devon (where I was fed – against my will, naturally – clotted cream at least once a day), I have put on 8 pounds. Eek!

Actually, “eek” isn’t really the right word, because “eek” implies that I see humor in this. I don’t. I binged twice the week of my birthday, at least twice in Cannes, and once in Devon. And now that I’m finally back in London, some truly challenging crises and a renewed taste for sugar have kept me from returning promptly to the straight and narrow. At least I have been exercising…

I alternate between being terrified of the eight pounds and wishing I were more terrified. (More terrified would mean, for example, that last night I wouldn’t have ordered the steamed pork dumplings along with my braised tofu and vegetables and steamed white rice, justifying that the dumplings were steamed and I was really hungry.) I have plans to be out every night this week (except tomorrow, which I’ve kept free so I can finally go back to yoga), have a big party this weekend, and a ball to attend the weekend after that, so I’m having minor freak outs about how, exactly, I’m going to prevent myself from gaining any more weight, let alone getting these pounds off.

My ever-helpful sister – to whom, in a weak moment yesterday, I confessed my sins – told me she’d tried the Master Cleanse, aka Beyonce’s crazy maple syrup, lemon juice and cayenne pepper diet.

I felt that familiar great rush of delight I used to love when starting a diet – the feeling that maybe, just this once, my problems were about to be solved. I opened my mouth to quiz her about the diet and then said calmly: “You know I can’t do something like that. It will just make me binge.”

“It’s not to lose weight. It’s to get rid of your junk food cravings,” she said.

“Yes, but not eating is going to make me want to binge before I get to that point,” I started to explain, then thought better of it and changed the subject.

* * *

The phrase “a few days at BN2’s parents” may suggest to you – you being normal people who conduct normal relationships, unlike the totally f**ked up one on which I seem to have embarked – that things are going swimmingly with BN2.

Would it explain things a bit – and by “things” I mean the relationship and no doubt some of the bingeing – if I told you that on the first evening at his parents he told me if this were 10 years ago (translation: before his marriage) he’d probably tell me he was in love with me, but he’s not sure he believes in love anymore?

For so many reasons, I need to get out. Because I’m letting him damage my food and exercise routines. Because being with him keeps me from meeting anyone else. Because he may not be ready (ever) for a relationship, but I am, and this is not enough.

I know these things, and yet I am still here, typing this in his office while he works on a court document that is the only reason I didn’t walk out of his life on Thursday morning, just after we returned from Devon. I was ready to go and I’d rehearsed what I was going to say, and then the police arrived. I know there is never a good time to leave someone, but trust me, these past couple of days have really not been the time. (I can’t write about what’s going on just now, but please know that I’m not in any danger.)

How did I get here? How did I become this person who knows perfectly well that this is not what she should be doing yet is doing it anyway? This person who knows perfectly well that if a friend were to come to me in this situation, I would say: “Don’t walk. Run!”

* * *

Friday night I went to a concert with a guy – let’s call him the Reporter (because he is one) – I’ve been out with a few times. He is nice, clever, Jewish and into me – he came all the way across London to bring me a birthday present a couple of weeks ago (and I have to say, honestly, that the one he got was more thoughtful than BN2’s.)

But I don’t fancy him, and it shows. I squeeze him in when I can (yes, that makes me feel guilty), and never regret that every time we meet up it turns out (by accident, not by design) that I have an early morning the next morning. Before Friday, we’d been out at least five times but had never even properly kissed.

On Friday we stood outside my (messy) flat and he kissed me – quite possibly one of the worst kisses since the one I got in sixth grade during some party game I can’t quite remember the name of. “Maybe we could go on a proper date sometime?” he said. To me, it sounded plaintive. Or maybe accusatory.

I deserve it. Another messy situation to sort. Sigh.

Going out for a run.

1 comment:

  1. man.

    I dated a LOT of Jewish men because I felt I had to (if by FELT you mean my mother berated me into it---which I do) and never found my Jewish prince.

    ended up with a nice goy.

    go figure.

    MizFit

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