Fevered Visions

Lying in bed cold and feverish on Tuesday, I wanted to get up for only two things. One was food. The other was to try on my jeans.

I knew better than to start negotiating cuts in my usual daily calorie intake with myself. But I wanted to – I really wanted to. I couldn’t help thinking: Surely I need fewer calories when I’ve barely moved two feet all day?

I knew, though, that cutbacks – particularly if they’re draconian – lead to binges for me. So I ate every calorie I’d normally eat. And then wanted to get out of bed and try my jeans on. In my defense, it was partially because of the overeating/binge at the weekend, which normally I’d be able to handle (mentally) by getting back into my running/gym routine, but couldn’t this time around because I was ill. The jeans freak-out is also a vestige of my diet history. In my 20s I had a handful of diets end with a weekend-long binge that just never stopped. I’d take my jeans off to make myself comfortable on a Sunday night and then hide out in looser clothes for a few days. Each day I’d wake up with a food hangover, vowing to start my diet again, and each afternoon or evening I’d binge. By the next weekend, I wouldn’t be able to face putting the jeans on, knowing they wouldn’t fit. My wardrobe would shrink as I expanded, and the self-loathing and dread and frustration I felt every morning hunting for something – anything -- to wear would set the tone for my days. When I think about it, it’s hardly a surprise I kept bingeing when I felt like a failure before the day even started, my too-tight trousers/skirt (and often of the wrong season, so desperate were my attempts to unearth something to wear) digging in to my stomach like a panic button, or, at least in my head, a shrieking car alarm that can’t be turned off. Every time I breathed – as my waistband extracted its pound of flesh (or so I wished it would) -- I practically could hear the sirens.

But that was then, I reminded myself. This is now. I did allow myself to try on my jeans, and then started wondering if perhaps they’d stretched a good bit as they hadn’t been washed in a few days. Perhaps I should wash them and try them on?

I shook my head, rolled my eyes at myself, took off the jeans, and crawled back into bed.

* * *

Today’s goody bag haul included two bikinis (to be delivered to me in January – will believe it when I see it), a pair of flip flops, a pair of ballet pumps, and a seriously uncomfortable pair of lacy black underwear.

I’m bemused by this whole press day extravaganza. When I was working for my former employer, I barely had time to sneak out to one or two. Now I could spend entire days twice a year (November for spring/summer, and April/May for autumn/winter) trotting around London collecting swag. I swear, it’s a racket-waiting-to-happen. Just follow the (well-dressed) women with this season’s It handbag and an armload of carrier bags. Hint: You can distinguish the journalists from the Ladies Who Lunch because the journalists’ carrier bags will have some bits of paper and books in them – these would be PR contacts and lookbooks. (For the record, I am neither well-dressed nor have this season’s It handbag, but luckily it’s winter and I can hide it all with a decent coat, thanks to eBay.)

Of course all of this comes with a price, which is that I’ve spent hours of my life I am never going to get back shrieking and cooing over products I would never want to own. (Who knew my sorority-girl training would have actual career applications? I’m not sure I’ve squealed with such over-the-top glee since I last saw a large but very unimaginative engagement ring of the sort in vogue in the late ‘90s.) It also means I will be receiving dozens of emails weekly for the foreseeable future, asking me if and when I’m going to run a story on X product that is so totally new and different and fabulous (but appears to differ from last season’s only in color, if that).

In case anyone’s curious, it appears gladiator sandals are here to stay. Also, so is bridal lingerie in cream, trimmed with lace.