The Definition of Geographically Unsuitable

So I met a great guy this past weekend – and he lives in Vilnius.

“It’s a three-hour drive from Riga,” he explained, as if Riga were a tube stop away. (I actually have been to Riga, and frankly I probably could get there faster than I ever manage to get anywhere on the tube, but that’s another post altogether.)

He’s cute, clever, American and terribly charming. His friend M. – the linchpin for the group of us who’d travelled up to a castle in Scotland for the weekend – casually had mentioned to me that we had a lot in common, including that we spoke a bunch of languages.

“How many does he speak?” I asked.

She answered: “He can flirt in any language.”

Oh dear.

The whole thing was a nonstarter, frankly. Nothing happened (beyond a bear hug goodbye – to be fair, it was hurried and public) and I may not ever even see him again. But it’s been a while since anyone caught my eye quite like that. It was fun.

* * *

So. Castle in Scotland. What’s that, you say? Have I cast aside my penny-pinching ways?

In my defense I agreed to this weekend in May, when finances didn’t seem so dire and I was facing what seemed to be a terribly bleak summer, having just split up with BN2. The weekend turned out to be a blast: 2.5 blackberry-free, carefree days in a castle owned by Diageo, the drinks company. (My friend works for them.) I drank (not too much), I ate (WAY too much – it was a three-day binge), I played croquet.

I felt wretched all day Monday and most of Tuesday. Now it’s afternoon Wednesday and I’m just beginning to feel vaguely like myself again (although seeing the muffin top in the mirror is not helping – my waist seems to disappear almost instantaneously). I don’t dare get on the scale. But somehow I don’t loathe myself quite as much from this binge as I usually do. Everyone was enjoying themselves this past weekend – I just went quite a bit overboard. Progress, not perfection…