Anatomy of a Binge

Wednesday night, I looked at the guy across the pub table from me and thought: I don't fancy you one bit. I couldn't stop noticing his crummy teeth (sorry, I am hopelessly American in that regard). I made polite conversation and wondered, for what felt like the eleven billionth time this year, if this is what I will be doomed to for the rest of my life: A not-unpleasant evening that's just... dull. No spark. No connection. The flames of fear licked at my feet: Maybe I'll never connect to anyone. Maybe that (gay) friend of a friend I met a couple of weeks ago is right: There's no worse and sadder thing than a straight single woman in her 30s, because all the good ones are taken.

When my date went to the bathroom, I ate a snack bar out of my bag. Suddenly I couldn't stop thinking about what I was going to eat on the way home. The last 20 minutes of the evening seemed interminable. As we approached the Tube, I said I was going to catch the bus. "Well, I'll email you," he said. The kiss of death. (Not that I wanted this particular relationship – if such a word can be used to describe it – to receive the kiss of life.)

I went round the corner, bought 2 filled bagels and two pieces of cake and ate them. On the Tube, I ate two packages of seeds and dried fruit I'd stashed in my bag, leftover from the weekend's snack pile. I got off at Euston, knowing the train station would be open, and hit up the Delice De France (disgusting, I know, but the only thing open) for more sweet carby goodness: more muffins. Four of them. I got to my own stop and hit up the newsagent (Cadbury crème egg, Twirl, maybe there even was a Yorkie in there – can't remember) and – just to show you that I will eat anything in mid-binge -- then the McDonalds: chicken McNuggets, apple pie (I remember an Olympic athlete I interviewed in 2006 telling me how much she hated that the pie was no longer fried – I think this is the first time I've had it since the change), and two more muffins.

On the plus side (and I may in fact be on the plus side – erm, size – if this keeps up), I felt far too wretched Thursday morning to hit up the Temperley sample sale. Which, frankly, I had no business hitting up anyway.

I can't remember a binge this extreme in years, if ever. Oh, except for the second most recent one, Feb. 13, which involved, among other things, an entire jar of peanut butter and chocolate. It is terrifying to think one has made such progress only suddenly, it seems, to be worse than ever.

I thought the February binge might be because I'd been too strict with my food, but I've been quite permissive over the past couple of weeks. Millionaire's shortbread, brownies, apple crumble with ice cream, Ben's Cookies – I've had them all. And so I can do nothing but pick myself up yet again and keep walking.

I struggled through Thursday – no athletic event has ever exhausted me as much as eating far, far too much. Earlier in the week I'd promised myself Thursday off from the gym, and I didn't think forcing myself to go would help my state of mind (or body). I debated cancelling a dinner I had that night that I knew would be a big meal in favour of staying home to control, control, control. But I didn't want to (and frankly, that scared me slightly – the fact that I just wanted to keep eating).

At the dinner I ate too much bread and more than my share of the two puddings we split (an apple and blackberry crumble and a steamed ginger). I did have a healthy starter (peel and eat prawns) and my main was steak with a side of roasted vegetables (I had just one of the onion rings). But it was a meal and when it was done, I didn't eat any more.

This morning I was up six pounds on the scale, a couple of which I know will disappear quickly, provided I'm back on track. (I was OK today.) This weekend, though, holds two afternoon birthday parties: a girly tea (hello, can you say cakes and champagne?) and a garden-type party given by one of the best bakers I know. Plus an invitation to a flat-warming party on Saturday night that is supposed to be one crazy party. (If I go I'll have to behave, because I'm running a 10k Sunday morning.)

***

Almost since it happened, I've been debating whether to post the full details of the binge. I'm embarrassed about it, plus more than a bit ashamed and a touch frightened. But, I reasoned, not posting doesn't mean it didn't happen.

And then today I walked into the gym locker room and saw a teeny, tiny woman I've seen frequently working out with a personal trainer. She's blonde and stunningly beautiful, and would be more so were it not for the intense, almost fierce, look she has on her face; the grim set of her jaw. We've only spoken twice. Once was a question from me about a sports bra she had, and the second – from her – was a couple of weeks ago. Upon hearing from someone that I wrote about fashion, she wanted my opinion on a dress she was having made.

Today I wearily flung my things in a locker and she said: "Oh, you're so disciplined." (Cue fraud alert: She doesn't know what I ate over the past couple of days.) "I was just saying to [the trainer] how much I wish I could do what you do."
I had to struggle not to visibly shake my head and tell her I wouldn't wish parts of what I do on anyone.

"Thanks," I said, and tried to change the subject. "How's your dress coming along?"

"Oh, I just took it off because I just want to be comfortable. I've been bingeing on chocolate," she said sheepishly. "I'm already up two pounds. I just can't stop eating it sometimes."

"I do that too," I said. "It never really goes away."

She looked disappointed. "Really? I thought to do what you did you'd have this kicked."

"Nope," I said. "In fact, you wouldn't believe what I ate the other night. I'm not talking about polite overeating."

"I can eat six or seven thousand calories in a go sometimes," she said. "Six or seven thousand," she repeated, sounding incredulous, and a bit fearful. "I just can't stop."

I nodded and said: "I've been there."

"I feel like I can't tell people that – that they'll think I'm crazy. I'm a normal person. I run my own business," she said, sounding almost desperate.

"I don’t think you're crazy," I said. If she weren't British, I might have hugged her.