Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Shame

So I dove face first into the Harry Potter-themed chocolate cupcakes Saturday night.

I'm not sure how much I ate. I'm not sure how much I drank. It was one of those nights where I ended up more than slightly embarrassed about both.

Why the f@:k do I do this? Why do I heap shame upon myself like this?

The backdrop for this has been some serious BN2 drama. Which is a totally separate post, if not a book. But which I just cannot write about right now. Because of said drama and what seems like eons of emotional strain, I slept fitfully Saturday morning and woke up anxious and exhausted. Never a good thing when you're planning a big night out.

I ran to Pilates and did my usual class. "Skinny," said my favorite instructor (no, that's now why he's my favorite!), patting my midsection affectionately at one point. Then on to a meeting and then to lunch. I was hungry almost as soon as I'd had my lunch. Also never a good thing when you're planning a big night out.

I felt like I was counting down waiting for my snack, and was hungry again almost immediately. Why oh why at this point did I not just have another snack? Because I chose to believe the hunger was just anxiety and tiredness talking. Cocktails were at 7:30 and dinner – a Harry Potter-themed dinner party – was called for 8:30 pm, and these are not exactly my most punctual friends.

Got there about 8 pm and eyed the canapés: pumpkin pasties, "stoat" sandwiches (actually steak on toast rounds) – and cupcakes. Lots and lots of little cupcakes and chocolates. And let me remind you those were just the canapés.

I started off easy. I had a teeny glass of champagne and a then a pumpkin martini, plus a pumpkin pasty and a steak sandwich. Or maybe two. Then I tried some of their butterbeer, a fantastically delicious mixture that involved butterscotch schnapps. I kept eyeing the cupcakes. I also kept eyeing the front door and the kitchen, alternately wishing that the last guests would turn up and wondering when food was being served. By this point it was 9 pm. I was also anxious because I was supposed to be meeting BN2 at midnight, and he's so ungracious and unforgiving about being kept waiting for even a few minutes that it is enough to ruin the whole evening. I calmed myself with a mini cupcake or four.

Sometime north of 9 pm the starter was served – a salad I remember practically inhaling. Also soup. And white wine. Lots of white wine. (Oh clever girl, thinking you're being wise by stopping mixing drinks and moving to white wine. You _know_ you are a disaster on white wine. What on earth were you thinking?)

The main course was pork, which I think I also inhaled. I also think I insisted on helping clear some of the plates, all in the name of stealing some leftovers.
Somewhere in there there were also a few more mini cupcakes involved. I remember also having at least one proper-size one. Plus some candy from the trick or treat bowl. (Among the choices: the very same fun-size Twix bars I purchased the other week and never got round to posting about eating. Um, they weren't all that good. Except of course I saw one in the bowl mid-binge and pounced on it like it was the most amazing treat imaginable.)

I seem to remember dessert was some kind of chocolate cake that I don't think I could finish. I'd love to say it was so impossibly rich, but I think it was that I was ridiculously full. Not that that stopped me from eating the mini cupcakes and – I think – the jellybeans from my little goody bag as I waited for my cab.

***

So, um, that happened.

I hate public binges. Especially because these were a mixture of new-ish friends and people I'd never met before, including the health editor of a major newspaper. (He was dressed as Cedric Diggory, for the record. Not that he knew who Cedric Diggory actually was. He was not pleased to hear he died.)

When I want to self destruct, there's really nothing stopping me, is there?

***

Let's move on, shall we? I'm trying to myself, which is part of why I'm writing it all out. Not to do so would make me feel like a fraud – which could very well lead to another binge. The good news, I guess, is that I don't much feel like bingeing. I craved some awfully strange things Sunday and Monday, but only briefly (in the depths of depression on Sunday night) did it even occur to carry on self-destructing, perhaps in the form of a takeaway. The urge was mercifully brief and actually more of an idea that made a cameo in my head than an actual craving, if you know what I mean. I guess if I'm going to find the bright spot, that would be it.

So what did I wear to a Harry Potter-themed dinner party, you ask? Originally I'd thought about going as Rita Skeeter, but at the 11th hour heard the party hostess was, so I decided to do so myself would be a bit like turning up in a white gown at a wedding. I wore my school disco outfit and carried a twig I found on my run and an old book -- just call me Hermione (and a bona fide recessionista). I must say I felt like wearing a sign that both covered my legs a bit and told everyone that I hadn't bought a skirt this short just for this occasion. I made a handful of jokes about the skirt myself, kind of in the way I used to poke fun at my own bulk before anyone else did. A friend's husband (barely able to eat because his Hagrid beard and pillows were getting in the way -- I do appreciate a man who isn't afraid to look a bit silly) glanced at me and said: "If I weren't married, I'd ask you out." (He then offered to set me up with a nice Jew in New York. Hmmm....)

***

I haven't been in a clothing shop for months, but I confess I've been slightly curious about the Stella McCartney for Gap Kids line. I don't go mad for Stella's clothes and nor am I mad to have a kid I can dress like a designer doll, but I've heard quite a lot of good things about the line. One, that there's a very Balmain-like military jacket. (Not sure why a child under the age of 12 needs such a thing, but never mind.) And two, which I read in a recent interview with Stella, that she herself is planning on snagging one of each of her designs in the 12-year-old size (it goes from babies up to age 12).

My first thought was: I bet this will be some kind of sick competition among yummy mummies – not just whether they've snagged some of the line for their kids, but whether they themselves can borrow it from their daughters. My second thought was: Just how small is a Gap Kids age 12? I realized I had no idea – when I was 12, I was already knee-deep in women's sizes (assuming I could get my chunky legs into them at all).

Reader, I am ashamed to admit I had to go and try for myself.

The Balmain-ish jacket won't arrive in shops until Nov. 16, and I'm told there's already a waiting list. Plus it's £80 and no doubt won't fit over my definitely-not-12-year-old-sized-chest. So I bought a £17.50 dusky rose long-sleeve Stella t-shirt imprinted with what would probably be called a statement necklace. Please don't let me know if the size tag is hanging out.