After the Storm

I told myself I was walking uptown because I wanted the exercise and because cabs were nearly impossible to find, but the truth is, I didn’t want to stop bingeing.

I knew that when I arrived at my friend’s in Harlem, I’d have to stop eating. And I didn’t want to. And yet I wanted to badly enough to choose the option of staying with her over others.

I have no power in my apartment thanks to Sandy, and there is a part of me that easily could have stayed there, endlessly eating nonperishable food (hello, Hostess apple pies!) and telling myself I’d get my act together when the power went on. There is another part of me that yearned to take up another invitation on East 83^rd Street, where I’m sure there would be something of a party atmosphere: lots of wine and carbs.

And yet here I am in Harlem, having gone nearly 36 hours without a binge.

It feels especially significant, not just because I feared I would never be able to stop, but because I can so easily see where I would have done it differently; the point where I would have looked back and said: That is where I gave up.

When the power went out Monday night, I already was well on my way to a binge. I’d been bingeing on and off since Saturday, and I just couldn’t seem to stop.

I drank for the first time in months: A drink bought for me by a random (cute) trader I found standing in my doorway when I went out just before the height of the hurricane. Then champagne with my neighbor, and OPP (other people’s pinot) by candlelight with other friends. I ended with chips and melted ice cream, after a package of Hostess apple pies and something else I can’t quite remember from one of the three bodegas at which I never buy binge food. (What can I say? It was the only one open.)

I woke up the next morning hung over and anxious. My phone and computer had died, and I had a story closing for which the hurricane would not be an excuse. I had breakfast, then trekked 30 blocks uptown until I found a Verizon store allowing people (and there was a huge queue) to charge devices. By then it was 2 pm, and I just wanted to eat. And keep eating.

I was already in the 30s, and my friend lives at 123^rd Street. I didn’t think I’d walk all the way there, but I kept thinking: I’ll walk until I find a doughnut shop. OK, I’ll walk to Magnolia Bakery in midtown. But few things were open. I kept thinking grumpily: If this is going to be my last binge ever, it surely is a crummy one. I walked to Levain Bakery on 74^th Street, whose cookies are legendary. I’ve never had one; it wasn’t open. That’s when I decided to jump in a cab.

I got to Harlem and had the cab stop 2 blocks away and I ran into the only shop open for one last hurrah. There wasn’t much. I looked around frantically, then – half desperately, half reluctantly – ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. It was a poor excuse for one, and I ate almost mournfully.

One day without a binge.