Miss Independent

BN2 used to complain that I didn’t think as part of a team. He didn’t like it, for example, that I usually wouldn’t ask his help when solving a problem. I’d tell him this was because of conditioning – for most of my life, there hasn’t been anyone to ask.

I don’t say this as oh-poor-me. It’s just that with a terminally ill mother, a father who was gone most of the time, and a sister with whom I wasn’t close (and who would cry if her math homework was too difficult, so not exactly a problem-solver), I got used to handling things alone. I didn’t and don’t take asking for help lightly.

I’ve been proudly, fiercely independent mostly because I’ve had to be. I don’t let most people in on the details of my struggles – nobody likes a whiner. (Maybe this is why so many overweight women are the first to make jokes about their own weight – we want to be liked, and we figure the fat is already the first strike against us. We can’t be un-fun to be with, too.) But when I was in the US last month I started realizing that my careful editing of my life for public consumption could be getting in the way of what I want and need. Put simply: If I don’t let people know that I’m struggling, then they can’t help.

Telling friends and contacts I was having little luck finding work is humbling. It’s particularly grim telling it to other journalists who still have full-time employment – they look at you like you’ve got a disease they’re afraid of catching but fear they may already be infected with.

“So tell me who you’re writing for,” an old editor of mine said when I was in DC last month.

“Well, I’m not, very much,” I said.

“You must be writing for somebody,” he said. “You can’t have no work.”

I had to tell him I was, in fact, awfully close to that.

His jaw literally dropped open. I knew I should be flattered, but I wasn’t. The rest of the lunch – the only one I had all week where anyone let me pay for my share – was supremely awkward.

I’ve also not enjoyed having to be so open with so many people about something I consider personal: money. I hate constantly suggesting credit crunch friendly alternatives when friends really want to go to whatever the new hot place is – and having to turn down invitations because I know the bill will get out of hand. (At a friend’s birthday last month I tried drinking only diet Coke instead of the champagne-fuelled evening everyone was having, thinking I’d quietly pay for my own drinks. But oh no, the bill was divided equally and in such a way I wasn’t able to protest. There went £60 I’d have much preferred to use elsewhere.)

Twice this week friends insisted on paying the bill, which was lovely but then sent me into a spiral of worry. (These were just random friends in London, so very different than the editor-friends in DC I knew were just chucking the lunch on the expense account.) I know there’s sharing one’s problems and then there’s whining, but am I seeming that sad and pathetic?

I know, I know. I worry too much.

* * *

Managed yesterday to have a pretty clean day in terms of food and exercise. I ran to Pilates, did the class, then walked over to meet a friend for lunch (chose healthy, safe option.) Dinner was also healthy, although we did split a bottle of wine despite my best intentions (I also had drinks on both Friday and Saturday, which is a lot more than I usually do.) I also couldn’t stop myself from eating nearly the whole box of huge, gorgeous cherries I bought at M&S, which is probably why I never buy them in the first place. (Maybe it’s just me, but I never ever feel full from cherries or berries, no matter how many I eat.)

I’m slightly worried about this week, which includes a first date (I see more alcohol in my future) and a party weekend in Scotland with people I don’t know that well (hello, there are so many binge triggers there I’m afraid even to start listing them). Must work out a plan.