13 Going on 35 and a Half

Things I am not doing: Packing, cleaning, writing, or generally doing much to make the three days before I leave for London any less stressful. (I am fully expecting to arrive at work tomorrow morning and not to be allowed to escape until I nearly miss my flight Wednesday night.)

Things I am doing: Wondering why you can only buy mini Larabars in variety packs of three flavours (one of which I hate). Pulling out my umbrella to use my bathroom (there's leaks in the ceiling and the window). Listening to the 13 Going On 30 soundtrack (Rick Springfield, Belinda Carlisle et al) while dancing around my apartment in truly ridiculous acid pink sweatpants and matching Flashdance-style top. (In the interest of full disclosure, I must point out that these were given to me by the spin studio I go to – as does a certain Kate Cruise.) I laugh at myself every time I pass a mirror. I'm not sure this is a bad thing.

Anyway.

It's been a strange weekend, though frankly, I'm still not quite sure what's going to be a "normal" weekend for me in New York.

Friday night -- after nearly bursting into tears at work, and as things exploded left and right despite my best efforts to get things done before London – I was supposed to go meet a friend from college and some of her friends for sushi and drinks. I was suspicious of the all-you-can-eat sushi, but it turned out to be a nonissue – I didn't make it anywhere near in time to eat it. I passed up the all-you-can-drink special and had a glass of red wine that tasted like paint thinner. We headed on to a birthday party of a friend of someone in the group that – I didn't discover this until we were en route – was at a bar with a mechanical bull.

My friend yawned. I started yawning. I felt impossibly old. I had a rum and diet Coke and remembered another friend's recent comment about being too old for rail drinks. All I wanted to do was go home, and for once, I didn't try to push through.

Woke up on Saturday morning feeling absolutely wretched. I'm sure it was from the quality of the 2 drinks I had, not the quantity. Busted out a bunch of errands and met another friend from college for a new class at her gym she wanted to try. (I balk at the cost of joining her gym – one of the most expensive in the city – yet when I go to a class like that I almost can rationalize it. Plus the instructor apparently has a cult following – he was hilarious.) Then out to meet previous night's friend from college for a pub crawl her friends were doing.

The pub crawl was in the Financial District – totally dead on a weekend – and most of the participants were married and toting children. I stuck to diet Coke (I don't even really like beer). At one point in my life I'm quite sure I would have either (a) drunk a lot, or (b) binged or (c) both – a seriously misguided attempt to make the evening more fun, or to handle my frustration that it was a Saturday night and this was my option. It was not a great night: Most people I met wanted to quiz me about my job (I guess to lawyers what I do sounds cool, but I wanted to talk about it on a weekend about as much as any of them ever want to talk about their day jobs) and gush about how much they love London (despite only having been there once) and don't I miss it? (Um, yes.) Why would I move from London to New York? Do I think I'll go back ever? Etc etc. Why this line of questioning irritates me so, I can't
explain. I know people are just trying to be friendly.

I left sometime north of 9 pm, feeling like a lame guest, but at least without any great desire to binge. On the way home I passed one of the food trucks that does Belgian waffles. I noted how good it smelled and moved on.

***

I haven't binged for 57 days – nearly two months. (A quick check of my archives reveals the last time I managed such a feat was in the fall of 2009 – not quite as long ago as I'd thought. I guess what makes it seem so distant was that I was bingeing, on average, at least once every couple of weeks in 2010.)

Part of me feels like I need to fall off the wagon to learn it's not the end of the world – kind of like a kid being told to fall when ice skating or doing gymnastics so she can learn to do it safely. The other part of me is almost certain I will binge sometime in London. It just seems inevitable, in a way: Stress, parties, emotion (not all of which I can predict) and the inevitable dread of returning to the office.

Am I the only one who struggles to plan holidays because there are 2 paths – the binge one and the non-binge one? Sure, there are things I feel like eating and drinking and doing, but all of that goes out the window post-binge. I remember a friend wanting to take me to Sunday lunch for a roast before I left London because she knew I liked it. I was looking forward to it, but because I'd binged the night before, I ended up not really wanting the roast and having, I think it was, a pizza.

As I've done during other vulnerable times, I've tried to plan a few backstops – things that may (or may not) force me stop bingeing, or at least, to stop at a certain point. This would be a plan to meet a friend for a workout one day, and my favorite Pilates class another day. I've never failed to be amazed by my own ability to binge – or find reasons to binge – in new and surprising ways. But maybe this time I'll be amazed by my ability not to. Here's hoping.