Points of Light

The fog crept in on little cat feet – and now it's moving on.

Acknowledging it was the first step. Then I talked to one of my best friends in the US, one of the wisest, funniest people I know. (I would say she's the only big-city law firm partner you'll ever meet who also does improv comedy, but she left her big-city law firm job to go into... career counselling, among other things.) Anyway, she said something that lodged itself in my brain: "Everything changes. It will get worse or it will get better, but it will change."

And I thought: I don't want it to get worse.

And just like that, it isn't.

I did some workouts I didn't feel like doing (but felt better after every single one of them). I thought of loads of things I'd like to eat, but then ate safe food, not as a punishment, but because I knew the last thing I needed was to start getting in the habit of cheering myself up with food. If hunger is not the problem, food is not the solution.

I did a lot of thinking about what is making me unhappy, and why, and what control I have over any of it. Then I sang "Heads Carolina, Tails California" (a cheesy country song that makes me laugh) at the top of my lungs while writing an article about startups' contribution to job creation. (Clearly I live a wild and crazy life.) And I felt better.

I arranged to get a drink with a woman I only ever see at the gym. I made tentative plans to try a new yoga class with another friend. I also did something completely random and answered a personal ad. The guy wrote back to say that we went out three years ago and it didn't work out then. He lives around the corner. (And before you suggest that maybe it's fate, let me just say that I had zero trouble understanding why he was single then.) Instead of bemoaning the lack of single men and feeling sorry for myself – which I think would have been easy enough to do -- I just laughed.

And on Friday, although it was raining and grim and there were insane delays on the Tube, I dragged myself to Hammersmith to see a friend's boyfriend's shouty cover band play. Although my jeans felt too tight, I managed to forget about them for entire chunks of the evening, dancing and singing and jumping around like a mad thing. (And that was without the help of very much alcohol – I was very careful about drinking water.) I chatted and laughed and didn't for a second feel like bingeing.

It felt good.

***

So remember Mr. Afghanistan, the posh guy reading the book on the exercise bicycle I met more than two months ago?

We exchanged a couple of emails on Facebook, and he disappeared. I never bumped into him again and I'd given up hope.

On Friday -- so broken-out I looked like I was allergic to myself, and wearing a seriously grubby black race t-shirt -- I looked up from my triceps routine at the gym to find him standing in the doorway in his suit, watching me. (Note to self: Please, please PLEASE unearth your inner New Yorker – you were born there, for heaven's sake – and ditch the unflattering workout gear and maybe put on some tinted moisturizer. Hint: Groomed eyebrows would be a start. Love, me xxx)

I nearly had to be picked up the floor. Frankly, I should be writing "OMG he was sooooo gorgeous in his suit," because that would more appropriately reflect the mental age I was in his presence. As my gym friend, who was also there, later said, choking back hysterical laughter: "I have never ever in my life seen you so completely lose it." I should say for the record that this does not happen to me – even doing interviews for the Sexiest Man Alive (some of whom also are the flirtiest men alive) I never once fumbled.

I tried to recover, making a joke about having written so many thousand words in the past few days (not a lie) that I practically forgot my own name. He raised an eyebrow. "Beth," he offered helpfully.

He let it be known he had indeed Googled me (and found me lacking? I'm not sure). We talked books and Afghanistan and finding something interesting in even the most boring person (something we both believe is fun). At one point he teasingly called me "my dear." He said he'd been travelling and that he'd meant to answer my last email – that he'd enjoyed the correspondence – but that he was dealing with emails going back to January. (That to me screams: He's just not that into you.) He said he'd pick up the correspondence.

He's off to Spain for two and a half weeks' holiday. I'm not holding my breath, but oh, it was fun.