Weekend Update

I spoke to him today. I saw his name flash up on my phone, I wavered, and then I figured: Why not?

Why not, indeed. Forty minutes of mostly idle chitchat and many tears later, I was a lot sadder and sorrier than I have been for several days. And I realize that before this conversation although lots of things reminded me of him, for the first time in months – probably since March of ’08, when he first set me straight that we weren’t exclusive (later, of course, we were supposed to be) -- I wasn’t spending lots of time wondering what he was doing and who he was dating and whether he’d take one of the other women (I know which one) to Venice in my place. Now I am. Ugh.

Let’s back up.

My birthday. I drank. I binged. I texted him. (I also nearly missed my flight to Istanbul.)

The texting was actually minor, especially when you consider (a) my penchant for drunken texting, (b) how drunk I was (appalling, possibly even by British standards), and (c) how hard I’d been fighting the urge to respond to him, especially his birthday card. Yes, I know I should have handed my phone over to someone else for the evening – I actually thought about it – but several friends had told me they’d be coming late and would text me to see where we were. (Frankly, I should have just decided privately to do without their presence – from much experience I know those people rarely turn up anyway.)

Via text, I thanked him for the card. He responded. I wrote something anodyne back (these were not gushy texts on my part). He called; I somehow had the presence of mind and strength not to pick up. (Being in a loud bar helped.) Nor did I listen to the message. He asked me to ring him, and I texted him that I was going abroad and had to get up stupidly early. He said I could ring whatever the hour. I didn’t agree to anything. Through the champagne haze I felt a flood of relief that no matter how stupid I wanted to be that evening (and I had a few moments of it), he could not come to see me because he had his daughter, and I could not go to see him because I had to leave for the airport at 7 am. Even if Istanbul was miserable (which it wasn’t, and I knew it wouldn’t be), for that reason alone the ticket was worth it.

And the binge? The binge was so bad and so public I am ashamed just thinking about it. It was bad enough that I’ve sworn off alcohol for the next 30 days – these days I only seem to binge when I drink, and I’m determined to reach 30 days without a binge, something I haven’t managed for a while.

For the record, knowing that I tend to overdo it on snacky foods, particularly when I’m drinking, I’d brought something to eat with me, and ate it. Then I drank more and I started eating things other people had ordered: hummus, pita, mini burgers. It wasn’t enough. I wanted more. When a few people suggested going for food, I was nearly desperate for some. First – before we sat down -- I sneaked off to the newsagent and bought Oreos and chocolate and was eating them, probably not nearly as discreetly as I hoped, at the table.

Yes, I know. It gets worse.

I proceeded to eat an entire bread basket’s worth of bread with butter. And a starter – probably meant to be shared – that involved a lot of cheese and bread. I sneaked off at one point and got a Cornish pasty. Then I returned to the table and ate a huge plate of pasta with seafood.

I got home at 1 am and lay awake all night, feeling wretchedly ill, worrying I’d be too ill to get my train to the airport, worrying about my behavior, and worrying I’d miss my flight.

I never, ever, ever want to feel that way again.

Also, for the record, when I weighed myself Wednesday after returning from Istanbul, I was up five pounds. Frankly, I don’t think that’s Turkey talking…

* * *

In spite of the binge, or maybe because of it, Istanbul was a revelation. I thought I’d be a complete basket case, since usually after a binge I need a bit of overcontrolling – eating familiar foods I know will fill me up. Often, I struggle with the desire to overexercise, or to try to cut back in penance (a vicious cycle that leads directly back to a binge).

But I couldn’t do any of that in Turkey.

Instead I gazed, almost awestruck, at the sweet shops – and there is one about every 20 feet – piled high with things that until a couple of years ago, I would certainly have binged on, but this past weekend had very little desire to. Sure, they looked good, and I’d happily have dived into Mount Baklava, but the thought was only ever there for a flicker; a second.

I can’t remember much about my first trip to Istanbul nearly five years ago – a weekend with a friend. Is that because I spent so much of the time plotting how I could sneak off and binge on all of these delights? Hmmm. Probably.

Sunday night my friend took me for a birthday dinner, some of the best food I’ve had in ages. The restaurant recreated old Ottoman recipes: sour cherry-stuffed vine leaves, hummus flavored with cinnamon and currants, so thick you could eat it with a fork. Lamb slowly cooked for hours with raisins, nuts, and dried and fresh fruits. For what might be the first time in my life I was kicking myself for having wasted stomach space (on bread with feta cheese served at the start). I reveled in the feeling that I was getting full – that I could actually get full, and without bingeing – and I tried not to get to the point that the feeling was uncomfortable. I succeeded, though not easily. At the moment, I still can identify very little on the satiety scale besides “starving” and “stuffed beyond belief.”

I struggled to stop eating more “just to check that I really was full.” I’d like to say you know how that goes, but frankly, I hope you don’t.

We’d had cocktails but skipped the wine with dinner so we went for a final drink at a bar with panoramic views. (The 30 days booze-free started Tuesday, for the record.) Maybe it was my charity shop Temperley dress, maybe it was either my or the friend’s stunning good looks (ha), but halfway through our drinks the barman presented us with special shots, gratis. My friend toasted the birthday; I silently chimed in one to not being stuffed. I’ll drink to that.

* * *

I realized at some point Monday that I hadn’t cried at all Sunday. Not once; not a tear. Nor did I cry Monday. (Tuesday I did. His birthday voicemail – which I’d never listened to -- was in among the messages I got when I turned my phone on while standing in line at customs.)

My friend and I talked about possible return trips to Turkey for me. We talked about a long overdue trip I both want and need to do to the US. As I caught sight of the Bosphorus on one of the cab rides, I felt that flash of joy that comes with great possibility – that feeling that anything could happen and just might. It was just a flash, but I know it was there.

* * *

Remember the children’s book Are You My Mother?, where the lost baby bird is asking kittens, dogs, and cows the question?

When I am single, I sometimes feel like the main character in the Are You My Boyfriend? book. I’ll look at men in shops, in bars, across the room in lectures, and I’ll wonder: Might you be the one?

In Istanbul, I saw the same guy four times. The first time I noticed him – standing behind me in the queue for the cash point -- it was because I could see he had a Katie Price novel in his carrier bag. I couldn’t resist teasing him about it. (For American readers, let me just say that this is about four steps below buying an Ethan Hawke novel, something I once teased a guy for in the line at Borders.)

As he ducked his head sheepishly, I noticed he looked like a shorter version of The Fig – a guy I still Google from time to time. I wondered if this guy was bringing the book for a girlfriend?

I saw this guy – and his two friends – again when I got off the bus at Taksim Square. And then again the next night at the panoramic bar. Then in the departures lounge at the airport (where he was reading an Orhan Pamuk novel). We chatted ever so briefly, he wished me a happy birthday and then I got on the bus to the plane. A flunky stopped him and his friends from following me. Damn Easyjet and their bizarre boarding schemes.

We passed each other again in the queue at customs, he on the natives side and me stuck in the “All Other Passports.” By this time I was a mess – teary from BN2’s message and shaking and shivering from a sudden flu-type thing that hit me midway through the flight and was to last until yesterday. He waved. I tried to smile. I realized he’d be long gone by the time I got through, and I felt too ill to care by that point.

Still, I wonder.