There's Only This

This morning in spin class, I was struck by a revelation: This second, this class, this feeling, this day, this week... this, too, shall pass.

Like pretty much every other sentient being on the planet, I have heard this about a bajillion times. But today, for the first time, I felt like I understood it – and I walked around like someone who had just gotten new glasses with a tweaked prescription. Everything seemed slightly sharper and clearer.

The past few days I had woken up unbelievably lethargic. This morning I didn't. Spin class seemed almost unbearable my first day back; today it was hard but the day when I get back to my previous level of fitness didn't seem so far off. Similarly, there are things – things that happened last week, last month, last year – that caused me such pain and discomfort I thought I'd never forget them. Sure, there are a few things from years ago that still stab me – for which the pain, hurt, or shame still seems as fresh as the day it happened – but mostly, not so much. And I say this as someone with an excellent memory.

When I received an e-mail from an editor saying I had until 2.30 pm (at the time, less than 45 minutes away) to make any final changes on a story, I got a little stressed, but nowhere near previous levels. This afternoon, while waiting for the story to be posted (I always panic a bit, especially when the subject matter, as this one was, is controversial). Plus, um, it's the freakin' New York Times. Lots of times when I write something I can pretend no one will ever see it. I don't think that's the case here.

Anyway.

Later on today, around 4.30 pm, when I knew the story would be posted within hours, I tried not to sit around – as I usually would – wasting time because I couldn’t focus. This will all be over soon, I told myself. I wasted some time, sure, but I also did a little cleaning. Progress.

I headed out to a press event at 6 pm: caponyasa (a fusion of the Brazilian martial art capoeira and vinyasa yoga) on a rooftop poolside, with stunning views of the river. I felt fat, shy and uncomfortable among a crowd of women's magazine editors (both fitness ones and possibly worse, fashion ones, because there was a runway show scheduled for after the caponyasa). My palms hurt. My left foot hurt. I was the biggest person there and in the most un-chic (and mismatching) workout clothes. Every minute it was something else. But I took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the experience as best I could.

I made a snap and possibly unwise decision to stay for the dinner: a vegan sushi buffet. I am a disaster at buffets, and sushi (like tapas) I find particularly difficult to guess what's a portion. And vegan sushi? I mean, just because it's vegan doesn't mean it's low in calories. (Consider, for example, raw foods – I found out that a particular raw dish I used to buy is 800 calories. "We don't publicize that," the company owner told me. Gee, I can't imagine why not.)

I think I ate about 15 pieces, panicking slightly because I was still hungry. I'm going to be hungry all night, I thought, and it's only 7.45. I bet I'm going to wake up hungry in the middle of the night. The last time I woke up hungry in the middle of the night I ended up bingeing. I regretted the decision to stay for the food. I thought about what else I could eat. Then I brought my attention back to the conversation. It worked, briefly.

When I left I thought again about what I could eat, and whether I should eat. The night stretched out ahead of me, and I thought briefly about the amount of damage I could do in the three-ish hours until bedtime. (Hell, I can do a crazy amount of damage in about 10 minutes.) I walked up Hudson Street and bought a pear. It wasn't ripe enough and as I ate it I felt slightly resentful.

This, too, shall pass.

Day seven.