Saturday was a manic day, and just as I was about to head out the door that night – having dressed in 10 minutes flat – I realized I was missing something.
I had forgotten to worry about whether my clothes would fit. Let me back up and explain: I was headed to the School Disco, and since I already owned a miniskirt from when I went in February, I didn’t give the outfit another thought. I thought it might be a good idea to try it on (never got around to that), but I didn't spend one single second anxiously praying it would fit so I wouldn't then have to do a mad dash around looking for something in my size and then spend the rest of the day/evening feeling cross because I couldn't find anything or had had to settle for what fit instead of what I liked. The way it inevitably would have been three years ago -- when I'd also have been torn about whether to avoid the event entirely (I don't think they make miniskirts in my old size) or feel like my fat was holding me back from doing something fun.
It was a great feeling, realizing that sort of angst is no longer a part of my life. (It's been replaced with other kinds, but never mind about that...)
I almost hate myself for writing this, but if anything the miniskirt didn't look great because it was a bit too big. I have lost maybe five pounds since February, but I guess I've shrunk more than I realized, because I had more than an inch of extra fabric bunching up when I made the Velcro meet (it's a cheap and nasty blue plaid wraparound, bought online for about £12).
I put on a white shirt and a headband and tights (the skirt is probably a microskirt -- it's scandalously short) and off I went.
"You look very Gossip Girl," said the first two guys I met at the pub just across from the Portland Girls School. (I texted a friend for analysis and she pronounced it a compliment, so, um.... thanks.) Another guy's comment wasn't so ambiguous: "I like your skirt," he said. "It's short."
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Life on the Other Side
“Do you remember going to buy prawns last night?” my male friend V. says to his best friend S.
We are all at breakfast, V eating chocolate biscuits, S eating pork pies, and me eating nothing because I am that hung over.
Apparently towards the end of a heavy drinking session the night before (I wasn’t with them; had been swilling champagne and eating artichoke foam – yes, really, or maybe it was avocado foam? -- at a music industry event), S suddenly decided it would be a fantastic idea to walk across the road to the Tesco to buy provisions.
Suddenly I was a lot more interested in the conversation. S is a normal eater – a guy for whom food is just food. I knew he and V. had already had dinner at Nando’s – I love to tease them about their fondness for spicy birds – and apparently he’d loudly and publicly announced his intent to go across the road and buy more food and eat it. In public. And apparently this was also totally OK and totally not a big deal with either V or the third friend they were with.
“Why prawns?” I asked.
“He said he was going over the road and should he bring anything back,” V said. “So I asked for prawns.”
Apparently S also bought a Twirl bar. I was curious to know if he’d bought anything else, but feared seeming creepily over-keen on the subject. This is my usual way of navigating food discussions with regular people who do not Know My Issues, which is to say I navigate gingerly, as if skirting around land mines.
“What’s a Twirl bar?” I asked.
“It’s like a Flake except it’s crumbly on the inside instead of the outside,” S explained.
“You were very generous with it – you gave me half and split your half with A,” V told S. (I couldn’t help doubting I’d be that generous. What would I have done in that situation? Bought a bar for everyone? Crammed a couple of bars in my mouth at the supermarket as insurance in case the one bar a normal person would eat in public weren’t enough?)
I could have asked a hundred questions about this episode. But like any normal people -- with the prawns and the Twirls long since finished – V and S quickly lost interest and moved on to something else.
We are all at breakfast, V eating chocolate biscuits, S eating pork pies, and me eating nothing because I am that hung over.
Apparently towards the end of a heavy drinking session the night before (I wasn’t with them; had been swilling champagne and eating artichoke foam – yes, really, or maybe it was avocado foam? -- at a music industry event), S suddenly decided it would be a fantastic idea to walk across the road to the Tesco to buy provisions.
Suddenly I was a lot more interested in the conversation. S is a normal eater – a guy for whom food is just food. I knew he and V. had already had dinner at Nando’s – I love to tease them about their fondness for spicy birds – and apparently he’d loudly and publicly announced his intent to go across the road and buy more food and eat it. In public. And apparently this was also totally OK and totally not a big deal with either V or the third friend they were with.
“Why prawns?” I asked.
“He said he was going over the road and should he bring anything back,” V said. “So I asked for prawns.”
Apparently S also bought a Twirl bar. I was curious to know if he’d bought anything else, but feared seeming creepily over-keen on the subject. This is my usual way of navigating food discussions with regular people who do not Know My Issues, which is to say I navigate gingerly, as if skirting around land mines.
“What’s a Twirl bar?” I asked.
“It’s like a Flake except it’s crumbly on the inside instead of the outside,” S explained.
“You were very generous with it – you gave me half and split your half with A,” V told S. (I couldn’t help doubting I’d be that generous. What would I have done in that situation? Bought a bar for everyone? Crammed a couple of bars in my mouth at the supermarket as insurance in case the one bar a normal person would eat in public weren’t enough?)
I could have asked a hundred questions about this episode. But like any normal people -- with the prawns and the Twirls long since finished – V and S quickly lost interest and moved on to something else.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Two Steps Forward, One (Baby) Step Back
I’m not calling it a binge, because it wasn’t.
If I were being positive (me? positive?!), I could say that what happened last night was a reminder that although I've had some success lately on the binge-prevention front, I need constantly to be vigilant.
In the interest of honesty – and maybe so I finally can stop beating myself up about it – I ate twice after dinner last night.
The first time was the more worrying: I was in a nightclub at nearly midnight, quite tipsy (maybe even drunk), feeling pretty good about how I looked (body conscious black dress and vintage belt – an outfit I’d gotten a lot of compliments on) and yet couldn’t stop thinking about food. (Usually it’s when I feel icky that I eat in an, um, icky manner.) So I sneaked out, ran down the block, and had a toffee-covered flapjack and a double chocolate muffin. It was most definitely not normal -- running around hunting for an open newsagent in the first properly chilly night of almost-autumn – but it could have been a lot worse. (For starters, I could actually have gotten lost, which I nearly did. And I could have eaten a whole lot more.)
The second time was at four in the morning. As we were leaving I was almost hoping we’d do the post-clubbing snack run that was such a part of my life years ago. (I could almost taste the hot, gooey pizza from this ultra-cheap place in Adams Morgan.) But the group broke up without a mention of food, and I went back to a friend’s, which will explain all the foods I’d never keep around my own place: leftover curry, rice, and chocolates. Which I ate. Not in huge amounts – not enough, for example, to still feel full when I woke up this morning, usually the hallmark of an evening binge for me.
I don’t expect to be out clubbing frequently, but I think if I did again I might carry a small snack for emergencies. What made me feel particularly desperate at the club, I’ve realized, was that there weren’t even any nuts or crisps for sale. Honestly, I think if there’d been a free buffet or something I would happily have ignored it, safe in the knowledge that food was available if I needed something.
Or, of course, I could just drink a little less.
If I were being positive (me? positive?!), I could say that what happened last night was a reminder that although I've had some success lately on the binge-prevention front, I need constantly to be vigilant.
In the interest of honesty – and maybe so I finally can stop beating myself up about it – I ate twice after dinner last night.
The first time was the more worrying: I was in a nightclub at nearly midnight, quite tipsy (maybe even drunk), feeling pretty good about how I looked (body conscious black dress and vintage belt – an outfit I’d gotten a lot of compliments on) and yet couldn’t stop thinking about food. (Usually it’s when I feel icky that I eat in an, um, icky manner.) So I sneaked out, ran down the block, and had a toffee-covered flapjack and a double chocolate muffin. It was most definitely not normal -- running around hunting for an open newsagent in the first properly chilly night of almost-autumn – but it could have been a lot worse. (For starters, I could actually have gotten lost, which I nearly did. And I could have eaten a whole lot more.)
The second time was at four in the morning. As we were leaving I was almost hoping we’d do the post-clubbing snack run that was such a part of my life years ago. (I could almost taste the hot, gooey pizza from this ultra-cheap place in Adams Morgan.) But the group broke up without a mention of food, and I went back to a friend’s, which will explain all the foods I’d never keep around my own place: leftover curry, rice, and chocolates. Which I ate. Not in huge amounts – not enough, for example, to still feel full when I woke up this morning, usually the hallmark of an evening binge for me.
I don’t expect to be out clubbing frequently, but I think if I did again I might carry a small snack for emergencies. What made me feel particularly desperate at the club, I’ve realized, was that there weren’t even any nuts or crisps for sale. Honestly, I think if there’d been a free buffet or something I would happily have ignored it, safe in the knowledge that food was available if I needed something.
Or, of course, I could just drink a little less.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For
Sunday after my half-marathon, I hunted for a suitable stand-in for a Yahrzeit candle, the memorial candle Jews light on Yom Kippur and on the anniversary of the death of an immediate family member.
I hadn’t forgotten about Yom Kippur – in fact, I’d wrestled slightly with my guilt about not doing anything at all. (I’ve never found services I’ve liked in London, they are outrageously expensive, and I have very few Jewish friends here.) But until Saturday night, I’d forgotten it’s one of the two days a year I should light a candle for my mother.
So there I was late Sunday afternoon in an Indian off-license on the outskirts of south London.
“Do you sell candles?” I asked hopefully.
“Candies?” repeated the woman at the counter in a thick Indian accent, gesturing toward the confectionary.
“No, candles,” I repeated, miming blowing one out. Which is exactly what you wouldn’t do with a Yahrzeit candle, which is supposed to burn for 24 hours, but never mind.
She pointed helplessly to another aisle of candy.
I wandered up and down the aisles of the shop, thinking how if I were back in the US this never would have happened. I wouldn’t be doing nothing for Yom Kippur – likely I’d be with my sister and her husband and friends – and most grocery stores eve would sell Yahrzeit candles, so there’s no way I could forget to buy one. (To be fair I never had to buy one in the US – my mother died the year after I moved to London.) I don’t fast on Yom Kippur – a doctor long ago suggested that I take the “illness” out that Judaism offers – but I still felt guilty being in a shop, even contemplating things I might like to eat. I remembered driving in the car at dusk on Kol Nidre with my mother years ago – I must have been about 11 or 12 years old. She’d just picked up a new car and was laughing nervously about how inappropriate that was on the eve of one of the most solemn holidays of the Jewish calendar. On the radio she found a broadcast of services from a synagogue, probably one in New York. Standing in the Indian grocery store looking at 3 for £1 Kit Kats, I wondered if I could find such a broadcast in England. I doubted it.
I was just about to leave when I spied fat white household candles in bunches of five – and next to them, towers of scented colored candles in glass bowls. “Burns for 30 hours,” proclaimed the package. Perfect. I couldn’t decide which smelled less cloying, so I chose the one that read “with love” – that was the point of this anyway, wasn’t it?
I arrived home just as dusk was falling and pulled up the text of the mourners kaddish on my blackberry (the fastest option), telling myself it was – and is – the thought that counts.
The candle glowed pink in its little glass bowl. Within minutes, the kitchen already was filled with its overly sweet smell. I thought of Shalimar, the perfume my mother always wore.
Until the last year of her life – when she was all but gone – my mother always went to the memorial service on Yom Kippur and at home, lit candles for her father and brother. So the candles, at least, are a ritual I’ve always wanted to do for her.
I don’t need a candle to remind me to think of my mother – I do every day -- and somewhere, I hope she knows that. But still I feel better for having done something, and I know that that would make her happy.
I hadn’t forgotten about Yom Kippur – in fact, I’d wrestled slightly with my guilt about not doing anything at all. (I’ve never found services I’ve liked in London, they are outrageously expensive, and I have very few Jewish friends here.) But until Saturday night, I’d forgotten it’s one of the two days a year I should light a candle for my mother.
So there I was late Sunday afternoon in an Indian off-license on the outskirts of south London.
“Do you sell candles?” I asked hopefully.
“Candies?” repeated the woman at the counter in a thick Indian accent, gesturing toward the confectionary.
“No, candles,” I repeated, miming blowing one out. Which is exactly what you wouldn’t do with a Yahrzeit candle, which is supposed to burn for 24 hours, but never mind.
She pointed helplessly to another aisle of candy.
I wandered up and down the aisles of the shop, thinking how if I were back in the US this never would have happened. I wouldn’t be doing nothing for Yom Kippur – likely I’d be with my sister and her husband and friends – and most grocery stores eve would sell Yahrzeit candles, so there’s no way I could forget to buy one. (To be fair I never had to buy one in the US – my mother died the year after I moved to London.) I don’t fast on Yom Kippur – a doctor long ago suggested that I take the “illness” out that Judaism offers – but I still felt guilty being in a shop, even contemplating things I might like to eat. I remembered driving in the car at dusk on Kol Nidre with my mother years ago – I must have been about 11 or 12 years old. She’d just picked up a new car and was laughing nervously about how inappropriate that was on the eve of one of the most solemn holidays of the Jewish calendar. On the radio she found a broadcast of services from a synagogue, probably one in New York. Standing in the Indian grocery store looking at 3 for £1 Kit Kats, I wondered if I could find such a broadcast in England. I doubted it.
I was just about to leave when I spied fat white household candles in bunches of five – and next to them, towers of scented colored candles in glass bowls. “Burns for 30 hours,” proclaimed the package. Perfect. I couldn’t decide which smelled less cloying, so I chose the one that read “with love” – that was the point of this anyway, wasn’t it?
I arrived home just as dusk was falling and pulled up the text of the mourners kaddish on my blackberry (the fastest option), telling myself it was – and is – the thought that counts.
The candle glowed pink in its little glass bowl. Within minutes, the kitchen already was filled with its overly sweet smell. I thought of Shalimar, the perfume my mother always wore.
Until the last year of her life – when she was all but gone – my mother always went to the memorial service on Yom Kippur and at home, lit candles for her father and brother. So the candles, at least, are a ritual I’ve always wanted to do for her.
I don’t need a candle to remind me to think of my mother – I do every day -- and somewhere, I hope she knows that. But still I feel better for having done something, and I know that that would make her happy.
Monday, 28 September 2009
2:03:41
It was a more-than-slightly-ludicrous thing to do: Run a half marathon without ever running more than five or six miles in a go.
But I was getting a bit tired of signing up for races and not actually doing them, either because work (from the days when I’d get sent abroad on short notice) or life interfered. For one thing, it’s a waste of money. For another, well… just not turning up isn’t my style.
In this case, I meant to train, I really did. I did short runs pretty religiously, at least 4 times a week for about 40-45 minutes. But – and I say this as someone who very rarely lets myself get away with excuses for not exercising – things kept getting in the way of a long run.
I decided to try the half marathon anyway. (If I’m honest, it helped that it started at 1 pm, which meant I didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn and try to make my way across England via public transport on a Sunday morning.) My goal was to run for 80 minutes (approximately a double workout) and I figured I could walk the rest if need be. (I’d promised a friend I’d quit if it seemed like a couple of hours’ exercise was going to jeopardize my ability to do so for the next few months – in other words, if I was in too much pain.)
Reader, I ran the whole thing. In 2:03:41 – which is a 9:26 mile pace. I sped up like mad on the last mile, with what felt like buckets of extra energy. I’m not sore. I have no chafing and no blisters. I keep prodding various parts of my body, waiting for them to hurt, but they don’t.
How did this happen? I’m not really sure – especially because it was seriously hot for England yesterday, and I’m not used to running in those conditions. (Judging by the number of dropouts – and need for medical aid – neither were most people.) And also because the race was at 1 pm – an odd time in terms of figuring out what to eat and when. (I spent way too much time obsessing about this last issue before, for the record, finally deciding on porridge for breakfast, no morning snack, and then a noon-on-the-dot lunch of a peanut butter and jam sandwich and a banana.)
Talking it over with a friend (who actually got blisters just from dashing about offering support for me on half-marathon day), our best guess is that I’m in reasonably good shape (me!) from exercising 5-6x per week: running, Pilates and cross-training (the cross-trainer itself, plus some boxing, skipping rope, weight lifting etc), plus walking everywhere I possibly can. And every Saturday since early July I’ve run nearly an hour to Pilates class, taken the class, then walked a couple of miles to meet a friend for lunch. So… my body is used to moving – and for long periods.
Then again, maybe I was just lucky. Or maybe it was the pizza and (a serving of) chocolate-covered biscuits I had the day before.
I am amazed and grateful. And already I’m itching to enter another half and get my time beneath 2 hours – with training, of course!
* * *
In case anyone’s curious, I spent a lot of time – too much time – obsessing about how much (but not necessarily what, specifically) extra I could eat if and when I finished.
The answer was: nada – unless I desperately needed it.
My thinking was that one day a week (usually Saturday), I get a good 2 to 3 hours of exercise (running/Pilates/walking) and I don’t (usually) eat (much) extra on that day. Yes, running might be slightly more intense, but not enough to justify the sort of extra food everyone thinks it does. (There are loads of studies about how lots of people actually gain weight running marathons because they fall into the trap of thinking they can eat whatever they want.)
I didn’t need food during the race. Although I’d packed jelly beans (good for a quick hit of sugar), I wasn’t at all hungry, and since I hadn’t trained with anything, in the heat on race day didn’t seem the time to try it.
After the race I wasn’t particularly hungry either. When I got my medal I also got a medium-sized Mars bar (166 calories) – not a chocolate bar I would ever choose, mostly because the whipped inside makes it about as satisfying, to me, as eating chocolate air. (Or Pret’s chocolate skinny topcorn, which is so not worth the 200 calories – you could eat a 35g bar of Green & Blacks for that calorie cost, but I digress…) I only ate the Mars bar because my friend had my backpack of snacks, and we spent more than an hour hunting for each other, so I had to give in and eat something. Later – stuck in traffic for hours -- I had my prepacked bag of nuts and dried cherries and raisins, aka my new favorite Sainsbury’s discovery. Dinner, for the record, was a not-exactly-celebratory M&S Cumberland pie (it was part of a deal, and I don’t think I’ll be eating it again). Oh yeah – and a Granny Smith apple, which for some reason I was craving, and chose to eat over a tiny (15g) Green & Blacks.
Yes, I was craving an apple. The world really has gone topsy-turvy, hasn’t it?
But I was getting a bit tired of signing up for races and not actually doing them, either because work (from the days when I’d get sent abroad on short notice) or life interfered. For one thing, it’s a waste of money. For another, well… just not turning up isn’t my style.
In this case, I meant to train, I really did. I did short runs pretty religiously, at least 4 times a week for about 40-45 minutes. But – and I say this as someone who very rarely lets myself get away with excuses for not exercising – things kept getting in the way of a long run.
I decided to try the half marathon anyway. (If I’m honest, it helped that it started at 1 pm, which meant I didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn and try to make my way across England via public transport on a Sunday morning.) My goal was to run for 80 minutes (approximately a double workout) and I figured I could walk the rest if need be. (I’d promised a friend I’d quit if it seemed like a couple of hours’ exercise was going to jeopardize my ability to do so for the next few months – in other words, if I was in too much pain.)
Reader, I ran the whole thing. In 2:03:41 – which is a 9:26 mile pace. I sped up like mad on the last mile, with what felt like buckets of extra energy. I’m not sore. I have no chafing and no blisters. I keep prodding various parts of my body, waiting for them to hurt, but they don’t.
How did this happen? I’m not really sure – especially because it was seriously hot for England yesterday, and I’m not used to running in those conditions. (Judging by the number of dropouts – and need for medical aid – neither were most people.) And also because the race was at 1 pm – an odd time in terms of figuring out what to eat and when. (I spent way too much time obsessing about this last issue before, for the record, finally deciding on porridge for breakfast, no morning snack, and then a noon-on-the-dot lunch of a peanut butter and jam sandwich and a banana.)
Talking it over with a friend (who actually got blisters just from dashing about offering support for me on half-marathon day), our best guess is that I’m in reasonably good shape (me!) from exercising 5-6x per week: running, Pilates and cross-training (the cross-trainer itself, plus some boxing, skipping rope, weight lifting etc), plus walking everywhere I possibly can. And every Saturday since early July I’ve run nearly an hour to Pilates class, taken the class, then walked a couple of miles to meet a friend for lunch. So… my body is used to moving – and for long periods.
Then again, maybe I was just lucky. Or maybe it was the pizza and (a serving of) chocolate-covered biscuits I had the day before.
I am amazed and grateful. And already I’m itching to enter another half and get my time beneath 2 hours – with training, of course!
* * *
In case anyone’s curious, I spent a lot of time – too much time – obsessing about how much (but not necessarily what, specifically) extra I could eat if and when I finished.
The answer was: nada – unless I desperately needed it.
My thinking was that one day a week (usually Saturday), I get a good 2 to 3 hours of exercise (running/Pilates/walking) and I don’t (usually) eat (much) extra on that day. Yes, running might be slightly more intense, but not enough to justify the sort of extra food everyone thinks it does. (There are loads of studies about how lots of people actually gain weight running marathons because they fall into the trap of thinking they can eat whatever they want.)
I didn’t need food during the race. Although I’d packed jelly beans (good for a quick hit of sugar), I wasn’t at all hungry, and since I hadn’t trained with anything, in the heat on race day didn’t seem the time to try it.
After the race I wasn’t particularly hungry either. When I got my medal I also got a medium-sized Mars bar (166 calories) – not a chocolate bar I would ever choose, mostly because the whipped inside makes it about as satisfying, to me, as eating chocolate air. (Or Pret’s chocolate skinny topcorn, which is so not worth the 200 calories – you could eat a 35g bar of Green & Blacks for that calorie cost, but I digress…) I only ate the Mars bar because my friend had my backpack of snacks, and we spent more than an hour hunting for each other, so I had to give in and eat something. Later – stuck in traffic for hours -- I had my prepacked bag of nuts and dried cherries and raisins, aka my new favorite Sainsbury’s discovery. Dinner, for the record, was a not-exactly-celebratory M&S Cumberland pie (it was part of a deal, and I don’t think I’ll be eating it again). Oh yeah – and a Granny Smith apple, which for some reason I was craving, and chose to eat over a tiny (15g) Green & Blacks.
Yes, I was craving an apple. The world really has gone topsy-turvy, hasn’t it?
Friday, 25 September 2009
My Cup of Tea
Tuesday night I went to the Burberry fashion show and afterparty – a star-studded affair that made me a tiny bit nostalgic for my old job. I didn’t miss the anxiety of feeling like I couldn’t come back empty handed – that I had to speak to the big name celebrities. (And last night there were tons.)
I slightly missed the sense of purpose I had at these kinds of events. I ended up spending much of the evening wondering what, exactly, I was doing there, because fashion parties aren’t exactly known for being welcoming. I did enjoy the feeling of not feeling conspicuous, the way I used to. Honestly, the thing that made me feel the most conspicuous wasn’t, for once, my weight, but my last-minute decision to wear a gray Burberry Prorsum evening coat – if anyone would know how many seasons ago this coat was, this crowd would! For the record, it was an ill-considered sample sale purchase (I bought it in the days when I covered parties all the time and needed a proper evening coat), and I bet half the crowd could guess I hadn’t paid full price for it.
I enjoyed the special Kooks set (I snapped a cheeky pic of their set list on my blackberry -- not sure why), and the vague feeling of exclusivity that comes with knowing that not only was I invited to the “hottest party in town” (whatever that is), but that I didn’t have to beg my way in – I was invited just for being me, as opposed to because of who my employer was. It was a little ego boost I sorely needed. (I know it’s a bit vain, but I also enjoyed the ego boost that came with having one of England’s most influential fashion editors practically shriek at me: “You’re so tiny!” Even if it isn’t meant literally, in the fashion world that passes for “You look good,” which frankly, is good enough for me.)
* * *
I’m at 39 days clean now, and I’m afraid to say it’s all just kind of working, but it is. And I am absurdly grateful for that.
When I say it’s all just kind of working, please know that that is very different than saying I’m not thinking about it at all. I am nowhere near that point. I still think about food a lot: what I’d like to eat and what I’m going to have for my next meal and maybe the one after that. And I have my danger moments – like when I wanted to eat about 20 more biscuits than the two I allotted myself today. Maybe – after seven years in this country – I really am becoming British, because I find a cup of tea helps a lot. I have mine with a splash of milk, and I find it incredibly comforting. Maybe it’s because I have to sip it slowly – it’s hot – but often by the time I’ve finished my desire to eat any more has loosened its grip (not sure it ever goes away completely). If it hasn’t, to me that’s a sign that maybe I do need to eat a bit more, and so I do. Whatever works, right?
I slightly missed the sense of purpose I had at these kinds of events. I ended up spending much of the evening wondering what, exactly, I was doing there, because fashion parties aren’t exactly known for being welcoming. I did enjoy the feeling of not feeling conspicuous, the way I used to. Honestly, the thing that made me feel the most conspicuous wasn’t, for once, my weight, but my last-minute decision to wear a gray Burberry Prorsum evening coat – if anyone would know how many seasons ago this coat was, this crowd would! For the record, it was an ill-considered sample sale purchase (I bought it in the days when I covered parties all the time and needed a proper evening coat), and I bet half the crowd could guess I hadn’t paid full price for it.
I enjoyed the special Kooks set (I snapped a cheeky pic of their set list on my blackberry -- not sure why), and the vague feeling of exclusivity that comes with knowing that not only was I invited to the “hottest party in town” (whatever that is), but that I didn’t have to beg my way in – I was invited just for being me, as opposed to because of who my employer was. It was a little ego boost I sorely needed. (I know it’s a bit vain, but I also enjoyed the ego boost that came with having one of England’s most influential fashion editors practically shriek at me: “You’re so tiny!” Even if it isn’t meant literally, in the fashion world that passes for “You look good,” which frankly, is good enough for me.)
* * *
I’m at 39 days clean now, and I’m afraid to say it’s all just kind of working, but it is. And I am absurdly grateful for that.
When I say it’s all just kind of working, please know that that is very different than saying I’m not thinking about it at all. I am nowhere near that point. I still think about food a lot: what I’d like to eat and what I’m going to have for my next meal and maybe the one after that. And I have my danger moments – like when I wanted to eat about 20 more biscuits than the two I allotted myself today. Maybe – after seven years in this country – I really am becoming British, because I find a cup of tea helps a lot. I have mine with a splash of milk, and I find it incredibly comforting. Maybe it’s because I have to sip it slowly – it’s hot – but often by the time I’ve finished my desire to eat any more has loosened its grip (not sure it ever goes away completely). If it hasn’t, to me that’s a sign that maybe I do need to eat a bit more, and so I do. Whatever works, right?
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Faggots With a Side of Lesbian Tea
Seven years ago last Friday, I moved to London. I celebrated – sort of -- with a lunch of faggots and mash. Which I ordered, if you can believe, partly because the dish came with purple cabbage. (Yes, I ordered a dish partly because of the vegetable it came with. Craziness.)
A faggot, for the record, seems indistinguishable from a meatball, except it had a slightly slimy sausage-casing-type-thing. (I know, I know – I should not stop or pass go but should go directly to writing menu descriptions, right?) Had I not been with actual British parent-types I might well have taken a picture of the daily specials sign with the dish listed – after seven years, my "I've fallen down the rabbit hole" moments are very rare, and this almost qualified as one.
I left over half of the mash and had a slice of plum and almond tart with clotted cream for dessert. Plus a cup of tea: English breakfast with milk. (A friend recently told me this was builders' tea, as opposed to the green tea – "lesbian tea," she says it's called – that she drinks.)
***
On Thursday – fueled by a scoop of West Country clotted cream ice cream – I went windsurfing. As I zipped up my wetsuit I had a flashback to the last time I windsurfed – my first lesson, in July – when I'd been bingeing. (Knowing I was going for a lesson was the only thing that kept me from a huge binge in the early afternoon, but as soon as I was off the water I dove into the food.)
It took me a while to remember what I'd learned the previous lesson – to get my sea legs back – and I had more than a few seconds of wondering if I were the worst, most-fraidy-cat-ish girl this particular instructor had ever taught. I found myself wanting to tell him I'd lost a lot of weight, just so he could understand that in Sports Age I am actually about two years old and thus he should be gentle with me. Also so he could understand that my goals are incredibly modest. Forget about fast tacking – just being able to keep my balance standing on the board practically is enough for me to turn cartwheels (though not, of course, on the board).
I fell repeatedly trying to learn the aforementioned fast tacking, and only when I think about it now do I realize that not once did I worry about the size of the splash I created. It's possibly an even more thrilling feeling than the wind in my sails, practically flying over the water.
A faggot, for the record, seems indistinguishable from a meatball, except it had a slightly slimy sausage-casing-type-thing. (I know, I know – I should not stop or pass go but should go directly to writing menu descriptions, right?) Had I not been with actual British parent-types I might well have taken a picture of the daily specials sign with the dish listed – after seven years, my "I've fallen down the rabbit hole" moments are very rare, and this almost qualified as one.
I left over half of the mash and had a slice of plum and almond tart with clotted cream for dessert. Plus a cup of tea: English breakfast with milk. (A friend recently told me this was builders' tea, as opposed to the green tea – "lesbian tea," she says it's called – that she drinks.)
***
On Thursday – fueled by a scoop of West Country clotted cream ice cream – I went windsurfing. As I zipped up my wetsuit I had a flashback to the last time I windsurfed – my first lesson, in July – when I'd been bingeing. (Knowing I was going for a lesson was the only thing that kept me from a huge binge in the early afternoon, but as soon as I was off the water I dove into the food.)
It took me a while to remember what I'd learned the previous lesson – to get my sea legs back – and I had more than a few seconds of wondering if I were the worst, most-fraidy-cat-ish girl this particular instructor had ever taught. I found myself wanting to tell him I'd lost a lot of weight, just so he could understand that in Sports Age I am actually about two years old and thus he should be gentle with me. Also so he could understand that my goals are incredibly modest. Forget about fast tacking – just being able to keep my balance standing on the board practically is enough for me to turn cartwheels (though not, of course, on the board).
I fell repeatedly trying to learn the aforementioned fast tacking, and only when I think about it now do I realize that not once did I worry about the size of the splash I created. It's possibly an even more thrilling feeling than the wind in my sails, practically flying over the water.
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