Dinner on the Run

“You look done in,” said my friend as I turned up to the bar at about 10:30 pm.

I was – not that I’d tell him why.

About 8 pm I’d met up for drinks – translation: cranberry juice for him and diet Coke for me – at a pub in Bloomsbury with my friend O. We nearly always meet for dinner, and it’s always at 8, so I assumed we’d be eating. But it was never mentioned, and something in me couldn’t bring myself to bring it up. (For the record, O knows a little bit about my eating history, and he’s certainly seen me along the entire 90-lb.-plus weight loss journey.) Despite a day of ridiculously poor eating (carbs for breakfast, chocolate for snack, carbs for lunch, chocolate for snack) I wasn’t starving. I kept asking myself: Am I hungry, as if probing a sore spot in my mouth with my tongue to see if it hurts.

It was distracting, frankly. If I’d just said I needed to eat and then ordered some dinner, I could stop thinking about it. But because I hadn’t I kept almost checking out of the conversation, assessing my hunger level and wondering if maybe I could skip the meal entirely.

O set off to meet up with his girlfriend just before 10, and as he kissed me on the cheek I was already thinking about where I was going to get food. I wasn’t starving the way I usually might be at that hour, but still I had the can’t-think-can’t-breathe-must-have-food-now feeling. I headed toward the Holborn tube, remembering that there was a Sainsburys central right by it. There was – but it closed at 10 pm, and I’d missed it by minutes.

Just as I was crossing the road to the (closed) supermarket, I got a phone call from two friends inviting me to join them at a restaurant/bar in Covent Garden. Perfect.

I knew I could eat there – I have before – but for some reason the idea of getting there, doing the obligatory few minutes of polite chit-chat before announcing I was starving and had to eat, getting a menu, ordering and waiting for food made me want to lay down in the road and cry. I wanted to eat, and I wanted to eat right then.

I went into three different newsagents, all of whom appeared to sell the same grim-looking sandwiches on white bread with far too much mayonnaise, not to mention chemicals I couldn’t pronounce. My local newsagent at least sells bread and other bread products – why couldn’t these, I fumed. I felt resentful at the thought of eating any of them. I went into a fourth newsagent and made the executive decision that I’d just have to deal with what was there. I looked at biscuits and nuts and crisps and felt the familiar tidal wave of wanting it all threatening to crush me. What could I eat that would be remotely satisfying? I couldn’t think. That’s when I knew I had to stop thinking and just choose. It’s one meal, I told myself. It isn’t your last meal. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just eat it and move on.

I picked up an oat and honey flapjack, a 45g package of m&ms (protein! Ha!), and – to balance things out (ha again!) – a Granny Smith apple. Six hundred calories – about my usual amount if I’m eating at home. But oh the drama. Note to self: Wouldn’t it be easier and less painful just to ask about dinner earlier?