Halfway through drinks Wednesday I started plotting my binge. I reasoned that it was only Day 2, and that I could start again the next day.
The editor/acquaintance I was having drinks with was talking about something – maybe it was the Obama book, maybe it was the story of how she met her boyfriend – and I was thinking about what I would (or could arrange to) pass on the way home. Or maybe I should just try to overeat like a normal person and just have whatever I wanted for dinner? But what was that? I decided I just wanted to binge.
I tried to focus on the conversation.
I went back to binge plotting.
It was probably about 8 pm as we got up to leave, maybe a little later. I'd had an extra afternoon snack because I felt like I was starving at 5 pm, an hour after my first snack. I settled into the idea that I would binge; that resignation mixed with fear and loathing.
And as I put on my coat I had – I wouldn't say it was a ripple of fear so much as a sense as a foregone conclusion that if I binged that night I would not be able to come back from it quickly. It wasn't terror, bizarrely – just this eerily calm vision that it would be days or weeks or even months before I would get a grip on myself.
And so I did something I have only managed to do once or twice: I pulled out my phone and started calling people. I knew I needed to keep myself occupied until I could get home safely. (Though frankly, given what the last binge started on, I'm no longer sure how safe I am at home. But that's another story.)
I left a message for one friend. I dialled a second one; someone who shares a version of this problem. She picked up.
"What's your plan for the evening?" she said. "Map it out for me."
And so I did. A simple dinner – when I'm in that sort of headspace making a lot of decisions is impossible – and then, bless New York and its cheap nail salons with late hours – a manicure, which would ensure that I could not be eating at least for an hour or so. Plus, I needed the manicure – I had a meeting today at the sort of magazine where they would notice any infraction of New York grooming laws. (I did keep my hair curly though; I have not succumbed to blowouts.)
Binge averted.
Saturday, 4 February 2012
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
Tested
I woke up Sunday at 6 am with thoughts of cinnamon buns dancing in my head. I was half awake, and full-on plotting a binge.
I tried to just carry on with my day. I got up, I ate breakfast, I went to see friends. One foot in front of the other. It doesn't matter why you want to binge, I told myself. It will go away. You mustn't think, you must accept. A thought is not an action.
By late afternoon, as I was leaving a friend's apartment, I realized the desire to binge had evaporated. I felt smug.
I went for a crazy two-hour spin session – two hour-long spin classes (spin classes are usually 45 minutes, so an hour already is a long one) back to back, something a friend had been encouraging me to try. I killed it, as they seem to say in NYC -- I finished in the top 3 for both classes.
I came home, ate my dinner, and wrote a story due that night. I was exhausted, and starting to think about food again.
Someone had once told me that if the goal is to get to bed without having binged, sometimes it's best just to get to bed. It was just before 11 pm. I climbed into bed and fell asleep with a smile on face.
It was not to be.
About 2.30 am I woke up and could not go back to sleep.
Maybe my body needs more food? I thought. I had a half an apple. Then I had another whole apple. Then I had a banana.
I have never in my life started a binge based on fruit, but Reader, that is exactly what happened.
Granola. Leftover artisanal peanut butter. Kind bars. Mini Larabars. Regular-sized Larabars. A package of "breakfast on the run" granola I'd been give at a New York Road Runners race. An Evol wrap I'd had sitting in my freezer for months. A dark chocolate spread I've had a jar of sitting around since we featured it in the magazine I haven't worked for since June. Yes, it may all have been "healthy" food, but still it was thousands of calories.
I have always known I could binge on anything, but now I guess I know for sure.
I threw out all the (rest of) the Larabars – there's no reason to eat them when there's real food to be enjoyed. I threw out the rest of the chocolate spread, because honestly, I'd never choose to eat it – it's really something I'd only reach for in a binge. And I vowed not to keep free food in my house – every single thing I binged on was something I'd been given to try or picked up for free (Kind bars were from the gym; I binged on them in Belize, actually), but never appealed enough actually to do so. (Of course, now that I'm no longer on staff anywhere, my opportunities for edible swag are fairly rare.)
I tried to carry on with my day as usual, meeting a friend of a friend from London for lunch at one of my favorite brunch spots. She commented on how good the cakes looked as we left; I thought about binging on the way home.
I didn't, partly because I was scheduled to attend a preview of a workout and I'd already cancelled the last time because I was sick (post-binge sick, not actual sick). I went to the workout, plotting what I wanted to eat when I was finished. I hoped maybe the desire to do so would evaporate with the workout, which occasionally happens.
It didn't.
I thought I had stopped just before the point where I feel like I want to throw up or die or both, but apparently not. At about 10.30 pm – a good three hours or so after the binge – I spoke to my sister and after about a half hour, I had to get off the phone. I felt so ill I couldn't concentrate, which made me feel worse, since my sister, aka the mother of three 19-month-olds, very rarely has time to speak on the phone.
So on to today. One foot in front of the other. I realized this morning that although I genuinely believe my life would not be better if I were thinner, nor do I want suddenly to be much fatter.
But as the song goes, you can't always get what you want – but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.
I'm afraid to find out what that's going to be.
I tried to just carry on with my day. I got up, I ate breakfast, I went to see friends. One foot in front of the other. It doesn't matter why you want to binge, I told myself. It will go away. You mustn't think, you must accept. A thought is not an action.
By late afternoon, as I was leaving a friend's apartment, I realized the desire to binge had evaporated. I felt smug.
I went for a crazy two-hour spin session – two hour-long spin classes (spin classes are usually 45 minutes, so an hour already is a long one) back to back, something a friend had been encouraging me to try. I killed it, as they seem to say in NYC -- I finished in the top 3 for both classes.
I came home, ate my dinner, and wrote a story due that night. I was exhausted, and starting to think about food again.
Someone had once told me that if the goal is to get to bed without having binged, sometimes it's best just to get to bed. It was just before 11 pm. I climbed into bed and fell asleep with a smile on face.
It was not to be.
About 2.30 am I woke up and could not go back to sleep.
Maybe my body needs more food? I thought. I had a half an apple. Then I had another whole apple. Then I had a banana.
I have never in my life started a binge based on fruit, but Reader, that is exactly what happened.
Granola. Leftover artisanal peanut butter. Kind bars. Mini Larabars. Regular-sized Larabars. A package of "breakfast on the run" granola I'd been give at a New York Road Runners race. An Evol wrap I'd had sitting in my freezer for months. A dark chocolate spread I've had a jar of sitting around since we featured it in the magazine I haven't worked for since June. Yes, it may all have been "healthy" food, but still it was thousands of calories.
I have always known I could binge on anything, but now I guess I know for sure.
I threw out all the (rest of) the Larabars – there's no reason to eat them when there's real food to be enjoyed. I threw out the rest of the chocolate spread, because honestly, I'd never choose to eat it – it's really something I'd only reach for in a binge. And I vowed not to keep free food in my house – every single thing I binged on was something I'd been given to try or picked up for free (Kind bars were from the gym; I binged on them in Belize, actually), but never appealed enough actually to do so. (Of course, now that I'm no longer on staff anywhere, my opportunities for edible swag are fairly rare.)
I tried to carry on with my day as usual, meeting a friend of a friend from London for lunch at one of my favorite brunch spots. She commented on how good the cakes looked as we left; I thought about binging on the way home.
I didn't, partly because I was scheduled to attend a preview of a workout and I'd already cancelled the last time because I was sick (post-binge sick, not actual sick). I went to the workout, plotting what I wanted to eat when I was finished. I hoped maybe the desire to do so would evaporate with the workout, which occasionally happens.
It didn't.
I thought I had stopped just before the point where I feel like I want to throw up or die or both, but apparently not. At about 10.30 pm – a good three hours or so after the binge – I spoke to my sister and after about a half hour, I had to get off the phone. I felt so ill I couldn't concentrate, which made me feel worse, since my sister, aka the mother of three 19-month-olds, very rarely has time to speak on the phone.
So on to today. One foot in front of the other. I realized this morning that although I genuinely believe my life would not be better if I were thinner, nor do I want suddenly to be much fatter.
But as the song goes, you can't always get what you want – but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.
I'm afraid to find out what that's going to be.
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
Skinny Up the Girl
A strange weekend.
On Saturday, I mentioned to an acquaintance who happens to be a Vogue editor that I was feeling slightly guilty for having ditched the half marathon I was supposed to run that morning – it was snowing, and I decided (for once) not to punish myself.
She said: "How can you even think about running in this? You're so skinny."
That makes no sense on a number of levels, yes?
Fashion note: Apparently Vogue editors swear by Uniqlo for cold-weather gear. Who knew?
***
The scene: A cocktail reception for Christies' old master paintings sale, Rockefeller Center
Guy: "You did a great job tonight."
Me: "Sorry, I think you must have the wrong person. I'm just a guest."
Guy: "No, I know. I just wanted to talk to you and needed an opening line."
I would possibly have swooned -- this sort of thing never happens to me -- were this guy not the age of my father, possibly older. And shorter than... well, he was short.
Sigh.
I left the reception and headed – in a reversal of binge trends -- directly to the Magnolia Bakery, which was, rather conveniently, just across the street.
Is it possible my palate has changed? It tasted impossibly sweet, not that that stopped me from eating. And eating. And eating.
I felt crazy ill that night – to the point of silent deals with whoever may or may not be up there that please please please if I could stop feeling so sick I would never eat Magnolia again. I actually slept almost all day Monday, except for a couple of hours spent filing stories and an hour attending an online class on business journalism. And I went to bed at 8.30 pm, and still proceeded to struggle to get up this morning.
At 11.35 am, still feeling lethargic, I made the snap decision to attend a barre method class – sometimes the only way to combat lethargy is to move, and quickly.
I threw on clothes and made it to a noon class just as it was starting. I can't say it was one of my more stellar workouts in terms of what I could do, but I focused on just getting through each song, and suddenly the workout was done. Fog lifted.
On Saturday, I mentioned to an acquaintance who happens to be a Vogue editor that I was feeling slightly guilty for having ditched the half marathon I was supposed to run that morning – it was snowing, and I decided (for once) not to punish myself.
She said: "How can you even think about running in this? You're so skinny."
That makes no sense on a number of levels, yes?
Fashion note: Apparently Vogue editors swear by Uniqlo for cold-weather gear. Who knew?
***
The scene: A cocktail reception for Christies' old master paintings sale, Rockefeller Center
Guy: "You did a great job tonight."
Me: "Sorry, I think you must have the wrong person. I'm just a guest."
Guy: "No, I know. I just wanted to talk to you and needed an opening line."
I would possibly have swooned -- this sort of thing never happens to me -- were this guy not the age of my father, possibly older. And shorter than... well, he was short.
Sigh.
I left the reception and headed – in a reversal of binge trends -- directly to the Magnolia Bakery, which was, rather conveniently, just across the street.
Is it possible my palate has changed? It tasted impossibly sweet, not that that stopped me from eating. And eating. And eating.
I felt crazy ill that night – to the point of silent deals with whoever may or may not be up there that please please please if I could stop feeling so sick I would never eat Magnolia again. I actually slept almost all day Monday, except for a couple of hours spent filing stories and an hour attending an online class on business journalism. And I went to bed at 8.30 pm, and still proceeded to struggle to get up this morning.
At 11.35 am, still feeling lethargic, I made the snap decision to attend a barre method class – sometimes the only way to combat lethargy is to move, and quickly.
I threw on clothes and made it to a noon class just as it was starting. I can't say it was one of my more stellar workouts in terms of what I could do, but I focused on just getting through each song, and suddenly the workout was done. Fog lifted.
Saturday, 21 January 2012
Turning the Page
Yesterday I caught sight of some old diet and fitness magazines I have and realized I have zero interest in reading them anymore.
I'd bought a bunch of them en route to Belize and noted that they stayed at the bottom of my beach bag, but I didn't think too much about it. I couldn't remember the last time I'd read one, but I have deadlines twice a day and have worked nearly every day (weekends included) of the past six months. So there are a lot of things I used to do that I don't do.
But for right now, I don't see myself going back to reading them. Not only don't I want magic diets or exercises, I don't need them. I know what works and doesn't work – for me, anyway.
I don't find the magazines inspiring. I couldn't muster any enthusiasm to read them -- and I can (and do) read everything.
Um, who am I?
I've been reading these magazines since I was about 12, when I'd sneak my mother's (she didn't like to share, and anyway, I felt slightly embarrassed to be reading 'mom' magazines) and read about how to walk off the pounds. For years these magazines have been my inspiration, my treat, my escape. I could read them and daydream about how perfect my life would be when I'd mastered whatever it was they suggested.
Because of course, I'd be thin, and thin is perfect.
Ha.
I honestly cannot tell you how much I weigh or what size I am – let alone where I am on the thin scale (or am even on it). I know I'm heavier than I was in the last years in London, because today I tried on a pair of jeans I used to wear all the time there, and couldn't get them over my thighs. (Then again, I've known all year that I'm heavier than I was in London, so I'm not sure what good or productive I thought would come from trying them on.)
But I can say honestly that for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don't think my life would be better if I were thinner – and I have little desire to try to find out.
I'd bought a bunch of them en route to Belize and noted that they stayed at the bottom of my beach bag, but I didn't think too much about it. I couldn't remember the last time I'd read one, but I have deadlines twice a day and have worked nearly every day (weekends included) of the past six months. So there are a lot of things I used to do that I don't do.
But for right now, I don't see myself going back to reading them. Not only don't I want magic diets or exercises, I don't need them. I know what works and doesn't work – for me, anyway.
I don't find the magazines inspiring. I couldn't muster any enthusiasm to read them -- and I can (and do) read everything.
Um, who am I?
I've been reading these magazines since I was about 12, when I'd sneak my mother's (she didn't like to share, and anyway, I felt slightly embarrassed to be reading 'mom' magazines) and read about how to walk off the pounds. For years these magazines have been my inspiration, my treat, my escape. I could read them and daydream about how perfect my life would be when I'd mastered whatever it was they suggested.
Because of course, I'd be thin, and thin is perfect.
Ha.
I honestly cannot tell you how much I weigh or what size I am – let alone where I am on the thin scale (or am even on it). I know I'm heavier than I was in the last years in London, because today I tried on a pair of jeans I used to wear all the time there, and couldn't get them over my thighs. (Then again, I've known all year that I'm heavier than I was in London, so I'm not sure what good or productive I thought would come from trying them on.)
But I can say honestly that for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don't think my life would be better if I were thinner – and I have little desire to try to find out.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
You Better Belize It
First the eating was messy. Then it was bingeing. Then it was messy again. And just when I was thinking to myself: Maybe 2012 will be the year I don't binge, it happened.
On the morning of January 3 – a day that involved three airports and various car rides – I started eating in the morning and Could. Not. Stop. It was like someone else had taken over my body. The ¾ leftover candy bar in our refrigerator. Some homemade hot flour tortillas. Another round of homemade hot flour tortillas. And another. A handful of American chocolate bars. And I don't even like American chocolate any more. And this was just before we got on the first plane.
I had spent much of the week in Belize fearing whether my jeans would fit at the end of the holiday. I managed to get them on that very last morning, but then seemed to be on a one-woman mission to bust myself out of them, blowing up like Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka. At the tail end of the plane ride from Miami to JFK, I had to undo them covertly, I was so uncomfortable.
And when I got home at 10.45 pm, having been travelling since 7 am, there would have been just enough time to get to Magnolia Bakery, what I really wanted, but again I was too full. (Also too cold.)
I did crazy things on this trip. Two times I got a slice of cake then went back to the shop about four minutes later and bought another, claiming I had dropped it. (The only place I had "dropped it" was down my gob.) The person serving it to me would the second time place the container in a plastic bag, which (a) was embarrassing and (b) only made it take more time until I could eat it.
I could speculate about why I binged: The lack of exercise options (the streets were unpaved, potholed, and it was pouring rain). The feeling of not-quite belonging to our group of four, even though (obviously) I had been invited. The fact that one of the women in the group was sticking to the most rigid diet ever, which somehow seemed to kick me into new levels of defiance (why why why? Nobody was telling me I had to eat that way; maybe I felt like I should be, or wished I could have that discipline?) The feeling of shame that I can find going on vacation – something I know I am very lucky to be able to afford – so unbelievably difficult, and wish I were back home. The feeling of frustration that I cannot just overeat like a normal person (though I did have a few days of overeating that weren't bingeing, and those felt like the most incredible of victories). And more frustration that weeks and weeks of exercise and clean eating literally could be undone in seven days (there were clothes that fit at the beginning of the trip that did not fit midway through, let alone at the end). The feeling of shame that at meals I was eating quickly and cleaning my plate, which no one else was doing. The feeling of shame that I was getting cranky waiting an hour for food (standard island behavior -- and they don't offer you drinks or anything in the meantime.) Blah blah blah.
The truth is it doesn't matter. As I have been realizing over the past few weeks, knowing why I do it does not stop the urge.
I feel strangely not angry with myself, though. Or at least, not as angry with myself as I once might have been. I haven't given up.
This week I did things I don't normally do post-binge: I went out to dinner three nights out of seven. I accepted a spontaneous lunch invitation. Less control; more life. More Magnolia, maybe (though when a friend suggested it the day after I returned I have to say I did turn it down; I was too worried it would spike an 'I'll start tomorrow' binge, which could last weeks.)
Nor have I exercised as much as usual.
At the moment, I feel like a barrel with little arms and legs sticking out. (Or, if you have seen my arms, not-so-little arms.) But I have had seven days without a binge. I don't feel any slimmer, but I do feel unbelievably grateful. When you think you might never ever be able to stop – and really, that binge on the January 3 may well have been the worst one of my entire life – even one day feels unbelizeable.
On the morning of January 3 – a day that involved three airports and various car rides – I started eating in the morning and Could. Not. Stop. It was like someone else had taken over my body. The ¾ leftover candy bar in our refrigerator. Some homemade hot flour tortillas. Another round of homemade hot flour tortillas. And another. A handful of American chocolate bars. And I don't even like American chocolate any more. And this was just before we got on the first plane.
I had spent much of the week in Belize fearing whether my jeans would fit at the end of the holiday. I managed to get them on that very last morning, but then seemed to be on a one-woman mission to bust myself out of them, blowing up like Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka. At the tail end of the plane ride from Miami to JFK, I had to undo them covertly, I was so uncomfortable.
And when I got home at 10.45 pm, having been travelling since 7 am, there would have been just enough time to get to Magnolia Bakery, what I really wanted, but again I was too full. (Also too cold.)
I did crazy things on this trip. Two times I got a slice of cake then went back to the shop about four minutes later and bought another, claiming I had dropped it. (The only place I had "dropped it" was down my gob.) The person serving it to me would the second time place the container in a plastic bag, which (a) was embarrassing and (b) only made it take more time until I could eat it.
I could speculate about why I binged: The lack of exercise options (the streets were unpaved, potholed, and it was pouring rain). The feeling of not-quite belonging to our group of four, even though (obviously) I had been invited. The fact that one of the women in the group was sticking to the most rigid diet ever, which somehow seemed to kick me into new levels of defiance (why why why? Nobody was telling me I had to eat that way; maybe I felt like I should be, or wished I could have that discipline?) The feeling of shame that I can find going on vacation – something I know I am very lucky to be able to afford – so unbelievably difficult, and wish I were back home. The feeling of frustration that I cannot just overeat like a normal person (though I did have a few days of overeating that weren't bingeing, and those felt like the most incredible of victories). And more frustration that weeks and weeks of exercise and clean eating literally could be undone in seven days (there were clothes that fit at the beginning of the trip that did not fit midway through, let alone at the end). The feeling of shame that at meals I was eating quickly and cleaning my plate, which no one else was doing. The feeling of shame that I was getting cranky waiting an hour for food (standard island behavior -- and they don't offer you drinks or anything in the meantime.) Blah blah blah.
The truth is it doesn't matter. As I have been realizing over the past few weeks, knowing why I do it does not stop the urge.
I feel strangely not angry with myself, though. Or at least, not as angry with myself as I once might have been. I haven't given up.
This week I did things I don't normally do post-binge: I went out to dinner three nights out of seven. I accepted a spontaneous lunch invitation. Less control; more life. More Magnolia, maybe (though when a friend suggested it the day after I returned I have to say I did turn it down; I was too worried it would spike an 'I'll start tomorrow' binge, which could last weeks.)
Nor have I exercised as much as usual.
At the moment, I feel like a barrel with little arms and legs sticking out. (Or, if you have seen my arms, not-so-little arms.) But I have had seven days without a binge. I don't feel any slimmer, but I do feel unbelievably grateful. When you think you might never ever be able to stop – and really, that binge on the January 3 may well have been the worst one of my entire life – even one day feels unbelizeable.
Monday, 26 December 2011
A Christmas Miracle
Last night, after a seriously depressing party, I binged. I also binged on Wednesday.
And I binged less than two weeks before that.
This afternoon, all I could think about was bingeing again. I thought: Oh, what the heck? I'll start again tomorrow.
Except I felt horrible today, and I don't want to feel horrible tomorrow. And again there is that problem of deciding what to eat when I just want everything.
Truth be told, I was almost afraid of myself. Afraid to leave the house to get soda (and thus probably buy food to binge on); afraid to stay in lest I binge on what I had on hand.
Lately I have come to the crushingly obvious yet – to me – still shocking realization that just because I can (sometimes) understand why I binge does not stop the feeling. (I don't know why I've carried on for 36 years thinking it would.)
I'm not sure why I yearned so badly to eat my way through today, except that this holiday season has been very tough and painful. (I've started, but not finished, several posts, partly because I have not wanted to be this bath bomb of Christmas Grinch sentiments fizzing through the blogosphere.) Lots of memories and sad anniversaries, and a trip to my grandmother's earlier this month to do some cleaning. But why the endless urges to binge now, exactly?
I went round to visit my neighbour, as agreed, earlier today, and she wanted me to come back later to watch Love Actually, her favorite Christmas movie. (I remember having to interview Martine McCutcheon as one of my first assignments for People, but I haven't seen the film since. I also remember I wore Dolce & Gabbana's Light Blue perfume for ages because she was wearing it, and I loved the smell. Anyway.)
About 6.45 I got a text message from her telling me to come over. I wanted first to go out and get some ginger ale (I've been ill this week, though not the kind that stops you from wanting to eat). I kept thinking: I could just start eating now and deal with everything tomorrow. Isn't that what normal people do?
Except I'm not normal, and this wouldn't be "normal" Christmas eating, anyway. I wanted to buy one of everything in the shop, but I didn't.
It was a lovely crisp day, and the streets were mostly empty. I knew Magnolia Bakery wasn't open, but I thought about taking a walk around the corner to see if a place I like called Angelique – which sells these amazing cheesecake cupcakes – was open. You can just have one, I told myself, knowing full well that that would not be the case.
From the end of the block, I could see the lights on. My heart quickened. And then. And then. And then I arrived to see they had closed just minutes before.
I gave a silent prayer of thanks, but still flirted briefly with the idea of a binge.
I got to my neighbor's, where she had prosecco and food from the trendiest restaurant in NYC. I passed up the prosecco, knowing full well that it would only make me likely to overeat. I tried a few dumplings from RedFarm, which tasted unbelievably salty. She talked about ordering some more food – this from the restaurant downstairs – and I thought about the truffled mac and cheese my friend ate there last New Year's Eve.
I could binge, I thought again. I could just face the music tomorrow.
I thought about sitting there trying to watch a movie when all I'd want to be doing is be out getting more food. I thought about the dresses we'd been looking at online, and how none of them – and nothing – would fit if I kept on bingeing. I thought about what a struggle it would be to have to get ready to go on holiday tomorrow (I leave Tuesday) post-binge. I thought about how bingeing makes a mockery of my attempts to exercise and eat well – that it wipes away in hours what I have spent weeks and weeks achieving.
And still I thought about eating.
But I didn’t do it.
Hope it's been a very happy and miraculous Christmas (season) for you all, and here's to 2012.
And I binged less than two weeks before that.
This afternoon, all I could think about was bingeing again. I thought: Oh, what the heck? I'll start again tomorrow.
Except I felt horrible today, and I don't want to feel horrible tomorrow. And again there is that problem of deciding what to eat when I just want everything.
Truth be told, I was almost afraid of myself. Afraid to leave the house to get soda (and thus probably buy food to binge on); afraid to stay in lest I binge on what I had on hand.
Lately I have come to the crushingly obvious yet – to me – still shocking realization that just because I can (sometimes) understand why I binge does not stop the feeling. (I don't know why I've carried on for 36 years thinking it would.)
I'm not sure why I yearned so badly to eat my way through today, except that this holiday season has been very tough and painful. (I've started, but not finished, several posts, partly because I have not wanted to be this bath bomb of Christmas Grinch sentiments fizzing through the blogosphere.) Lots of memories and sad anniversaries, and a trip to my grandmother's earlier this month to do some cleaning. But why the endless urges to binge now, exactly?
I went round to visit my neighbour, as agreed, earlier today, and she wanted me to come back later to watch Love Actually, her favorite Christmas movie. (I remember having to interview Martine McCutcheon as one of my first assignments for People, but I haven't seen the film since. I also remember I wore Dolce & Gabbana's Light Blue perfume for ages because she was wearing it, and I loved the smell. Anyway.)
About 6.45 I got a text message from her telling me to come over. I wanted first to go out and get some ginger ale (I've been ill this week, though not the kind that stops you from wanting to eat). I kept thinking: I could just start eating now and deal with everything tomorrow. Isn't that what normal people do?
Except I'm not normal, and this wouldn't be "normal" Christmas eating, anyway. I wanted to buy one of everything in the shop, but I didn't.
It was a lovely crisp day, and the streets were mostly empty. I knew Magnolia Bakery wasn't open, but I thought about taking a walk around the corner to see if a place I like called Angelique – which sells these amazing cheesecake cupcakes – was open. You can just have one, I told myself, knowing full well that that would not be the case.
From the end of the block, I could see the lights on. My heart quickened. And then. And then. And then I arrived to see they had closed just minutes before.
I gave a silent prayer of thanks, but still flirted briefly with the idea of a binge.
I got to my neighbor's, where she had prosecco and food from the trendiest restaurant in NYC. I passed up the prosecco, knowing full well that it would only make me likely to overeat. I tried a few dumplings from RedFarm, which tasted unbelievably salty. She talked about ordering some more food – this from the restaurant downstairs – and I thought about the truffled mac and cheese my friend ate there last New Year's Eve.
I could binge, I thought again. I could just face the music tomorrow.
I thought about sitting there trying to watch a movie when all I'd want to be doing is be out getting more food. I thought about the dresses we'd been looking at online, and how none of them – and nothing – would fit if I kept on bingeing. I thought about what a struggle it would be to have to get ready to go on holiday tomorrow (I leave Tuesday) post-binge. I thought about how bingeing makes a mockery of my attempts to exercise and eat well – that it wipes away in hours what I have spent weeks and weeks achieving.
And still I thought about eating.
But I didn’t do it.
Hope it's been a very happy and miraculous Christmas (season) for you all, and here's to 2012.
Saturday, 10 December 2011
Tuesdays with Frito-Lay
Last night at a party -- the first one I have been to in ages – I learned that all Frito Lay products (so potato chips, Doritos, Cheetos, etc) go bad on a Tuesday.
I also learned the proper methods for shelving them (most popular products on very top and very bottom rows, because people will hunt for those; at eye level are the worst sellers and, in Mexican neighborhoods, anything with the word 'limon' or 'hot and spicy' in it.)
This I learned from some flannel-shirt-wearing 23-year-old visiting from Oregon who also told me he turned up to a wedding and gave the couple an oil portrait of himself out of spite because the wedding was two hours away. (I guess he was annoyed that they didn't, say, hold it in his house so he didn't have to make any effort at all.)
And then after 45 minutes I find out even this dude has a girlfriend.
***
Here is something I am learning, reluctantly, about bingeing: That even knowing why I want to do it does not stop the urge.
I don't know why I thought that being able to isolate the cause would allow me to rip the urge out at the roots; to cut it out like a cancer; but it does not. Presumably this is because I cannot do much about the underlying feelings that make me want to binge besides wait them out. How totally bloody obvious, of course, but I have only just made the connection. Which is this: You mustn't think, you must accept.
I binged last night, the first one in almost 100 days (98, to be exact). I'm here to report that it was totally unsatisfying, as I knew it would be, and that I was too full even to eat what I really wanted, which I also knew I would be.
That said, it was a most bizarre binge, at least by Beth standards.
I could feel it coming on for days, like the onset of a cold. I was thinking about food constantly; I was eyeing it up in shops. I kept thinking that I could not binge because the decision of what to eat in what order would just be too much. That is the truth.
Just a couple of days ago I looked at some cookies in a shop and thought: Yes, but if you ate those you would have to decide what else to eat and you would go crazy from wanting it all. That, too, is the truth.
As is this: Yesterday I knew I was going to binge. I had two events to go to, both of which would involve drinks, and I had been working absolutely nonstop. I'd stayed up until 3 am finishing a story, then got up six hours later and promptly filed two more. I've been quite sad lately about a couple of friends who are no longer in my life, something I can ascribe almost directly to the way bingeing makes me behave. And in a couple of days I have to fly to Miami to do some sorting of my grandmother's apartment with my sister, something I expect to be ugly.
I'd spent nearly a week thinking about both of these events I had to attend; how I really didn't want to binge at them but I sort of did.
But no, I really didn't. At least enough to call someone and spend 20 minutes talking about why bingeing would be a bad idea.
And then I went off to the first event without a plan for dinner.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
I had a glass of wine. Dumb.
Another glass of wine. Dumber.
I eyed the blondies on the cake stand in the restaurant. I thought about what I would eat – really, binge on – when I left. I pushed the thoughts out of my head.
Then I had a breadstick with some hummus, which was very, very dumb. Because I do not graze. And grazing in my head usually is the prelude to, well, nothing very good. It says to me: You are eating in a way that is way out of the ordinary.
And then I left the restaurant and bought a cupcake. Not even a good one.
I thought to myself: You could call it quits now. A cupcake is not a binge.
But I did not. I passed Hill Country Chicken and spied biscuits. I bought two. I still was absent that frantic need I usually feel when I binge, but still, there I was doing it.
And then I had three cookies from the Subway, and two whoopie pies from somewhere else. The second one made me feel almost sick.
I walked into the second event and started eating cheese, caramel popcorn, nuts, dried apricots, some not-very-good cookies and blondies – even some gum drops.
I left the party and walked into a 7-Eleven where I perused the options quite calmly – again atypical – and selected a jelly doughnut. I had a piece of pizza. And then my taxi passed the Magnolia Bakery on the way home.
Of course I got out. Though I could barely finish ¼ of a slice of "van van," as the shop calls it – vanilla cake with vanilla buttercream. And it tasted ridiculously sweet. (Is it possible I've lost my taste for it?) I threw it out on the way home, which was lucky.
All day today I thought about that ¾ slice of cake I left over, wishing it were in a trash bin from which I could rescue it.
And that also is the truth.
I also learned the proper methods for shelving them (most popular products on very top and very bottom rows, because people will hunt for those; at eye level are the worst sellers and, in Mexican neighborhoods, anything with the word 'limon' or 'hot and spicy' in it.)
This I learned from some flannel-shirt-wearing 23-year-old visiting from Oregon who also told me he turned up to a wedding and gave the couple an oil portrait of himself out of spite because the wedding was two hours away. (I guess he was annoyed that they didn't, say, hold it in his house so he didn't have to make any effort at all.)
And then after 45 minutes I find out even this dude has a girlfriend.
***
Here is something I am learning, reluctantly, about bingeing: That even knowing why I want to do it does not stop the urge.
I don't know why I thought that being able to isolate the cause would allow me to rip the urge out at the roots; to cut it out like a cancer; but it does not. Presumably this is because I cannot do much about the underlying feelings that make me want to binge besides wait them out. How totally bloody obvious, of course, but I have only just made the connection. Which is this: You mustn't think, you must accept.
I binged last night, the first one in almost 100 days (98, to be exact). I'm here to report that it was totally unsatisfying, as I knew it would be, and that I was too full even to eat what I really wanted, which I also knew I would be.
That said, it was a most bizarre binge, at least by Beth standards.
I could feel it coming on for days, like the onset of a cold. I was thinking about food constantly; I was eyeing it up in shops. I kept thinking that I could not binge because the decision of what to eat in what order would just be too much. That is the truth.
Just a couple of days ago I looked at some cookies in a shop and thought: Yes, but if you ate those you would have to decide what else to eat and you would go crazy from wanting it all. That, too, is the truth.
As is this: Yesterday I knew I was going to binge. I had two events to go to, both of which would involve drinks, and I had been working absolutely nonstop. I'd stayed up until 3 am finishing a story, then got up six hours later and promptly filed two more. I've been quite sad lately about a couple of friends who are no longer in my life, something I can ascribe almost directly to the way bingeing makes me behave. And in a couple of days I have to fly to Miami to do some sorting of my grandmother's apartment with my sister, something I expect to be ugly.
I'd spent nearly a week thinking about both of these events I had to attend; how I really didn't want to binge at them but I sort of did.
But no, I really didn't. At least enough to call someone and spend 20 minutes talking about why bingeing would be a bad idea.
And then I went off to the first event without a plan for dinner.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
I had a glass of wine. Dumb.
Another glass of wine. Dumber.
I eyed the blondies on the cake stand in the restaurant. I thought about what I would eat – really, binge on – when I left. I pushed the thoughts out of my head.
Then I had a breadstick with some hummus, which was very, very dumb. Because I do not graze. And grazing in my head usually is the prelude to, well, nothing very good. It says to me: You are eating in a way that is way out of the ordinary.
And then I left the restaurant and bought a cupcake. Not even a good one.
I thought to myself: You could call it quits now. A cupcake is not a binge.
But I did not. I passed Hill Country Chicken and spied biscuits. I bought two. I still was absent that frantic need I usually feel when I binge, but still, there I was doing it.
And then I had three cookies from the Subway, and two whoopie pies from somewhere else. The second one made me feel almost sick.
I walked into the second event and started eating cheese, caramel popcorn, nuts, dried apricots, some not-very-good cookies and blondies – even some gum drops.
I left the party and walked into a 7-Eleven where I perused the options quite calmly – again atypical – and selected a jelly doughnut. I had a piece of pizza. And then my taxi passed the Magnolia Bakery on the way home.
Of course I got out. Though I could barely finish ¼ of a slice of "van van," as the shop calls it – vanilla cake with vanilla buttercream. And it tasted ridiculously sweet. (Is it possible I've lost my taste for it?) I threw it out on the way home, which was lucky.
All day today I thought about that ¾ slice of cake I left over, wishing it were in a trash bin from which I could rescue it.
And that also is the truth.
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