About halfway through a couple of drinks with a reasonably powerful editor I know – because years ago in Washington DC I hired her as an intern – I could not stop thinking about how soon I could get out of there to binge.
I thought about muffins. I was pretty sure I remembered they sold muffins in the bakery next door. Would it be open circa 9 pm, or whenever I got out? I remembered they sold crummy cupcakes. Hmmm, but the Gourmet Garage would be open and I could get cornbread and macaroni and cheese and...
I tried to return to the conversation. I hadn't seen Madam Fancypants Beauty Editor since I was in New York trying to see editors when I was still living in London. I had met her at the Hearst cafeteria, where – although I desperately needed help or work or something – she spent the entire lunch complaining about a freelance assignment she had for a very well-paying magazine. (She is powerful enough and good enough that she has a fancy title yet works parttime and freelances the other.) I'm not sure I got in a word edgewise at that lunch.
I had forgotten about her and that I knew her, to be honest, until I received an email from her a couple of weeks ago, saying she was looking at the first bound copies of an upcoming issue of the magazine and there I was. (I've written my first piece for her magazine, without her help, thankyouverymuch.) Did I want to get a drink?
So I said sure. And we met up and she proceeded to spend almost the entire time complaining about her sister and how all her sister does is complain about her job. (Ha.)
In fairness, she did ask me what I was doing these days. I gave her a brief account of the miserable job and my entry into the world of freelancing. I said it was a struggle because I hadn't worked in New York before, and didn't really know people, but that I was enjoying learning how it all works. She admitted that her incredible success in terms of getting assignments was mostly down to having worked with various editors on their way up, yet made zero offer of any help, even at her own magazine. I didn't expect any, frankly, but many people in her position might at least have offered.
She then commenced the complaining. I actually had forgotten that the last time I'd seen her she complained the whole time until she triggered the Hearst cafeteria memory. By that point I already was long down the I'm-going-to-binge-track.
I half-listened to her, half-considered my options. She would probably go west to the subway – should I go east to Sixth Avenue and Citarella? Or should I walk with her to the subway and hit the Gourmet Garage or even the Dunkin Donuts? What time would it be when we got out and what would be open? Ah, decisions, decisions.
I surrendered to the idea that I was going to binge; that soon enough I would be finished with her and full up with carbs. Way too full of carbs. I tried to remember what I had to do today – what, essentially, I would have to struggle through post-binge. I couldn't remember. Muffins. Muffins. Muffins.
Though only she had bar food – and is the only one of us employed – she wanted to split the bill. I decided not to make a production. I just wanted out. She decided she had to go the bathroom. I went after her (it was one of the single-person kind) and stood in front of the sink and looked in the mirror and closed my eyes and then opened them again.
Gotta get out of here so I can go binge, I thought. I could feel the feeling reaching fever pitch – the sort where I am impatient with lines or whoever is serving me because I want whatever I want that much.
And then I thought: You don't have to do this.
And an even stranger thought: Your life is worth more than this. You do not need to spend an evening overstuffing yourself and then losing the next three days of your life to this. You do not want this, and you do not have to do this.
Really.
I thought about how much I wanted rice, and where I could get it. And maybe I could just have the macaroni? Maybe I should just get one really good dinner. But what, in this state, is "a really good dinner"? And would I taste it? And would it be enough? I doubted it.
Keep it simple, I told myself. If you have to go anywhere and make decisions about what to buy or order you are going to binge.
I went home planning to have breakfast for dinner, because it was a meal that required no preparation or further consideration. It was my last Fage, meaning I wouldn't have any on hand for breakfast. I always wake up starving. Maybe I should go out and buy some yogurt now because I might binge tomorrow if I have to go out in the morning for it?
Yes, but you might binge now if you go out and get it now, I thought. Tomorrow is tomorrow. You can deal with it then.
I wanted to eat more. I thought about eating the muffins in my freezer I often have as snacks; the chocolate square; more cereal; anything that would make me fullfullfull.
It was 10 pm, and I'd stayed up past 4 am that morning writing another Times story I had due. You're tired, I thought to myself. Just go to bed and let this day be over.
And I did.
Four hours later, at 2 am, I woke up. I debated eating any number of things over the next 2.5 hours, as I tried to sleep. But I didn't.
This morning I straggled to the bodega, still in these ridiculous pink and white pajama bottoms I bought at least five years ago at Primark. I couldn't face changing. Nor could I face my contact lenses, and I didn't bother with my glasses, so I could barely see.
Of course the bodega was out of yogurt. (I know, only in NYC would a bodega have Fage 0 percent fat Greek yogurt. And the CVS has Chobani, though only in nasty flavors.)
I continued on to the grocery store, where I bought the yogurt (and noted grimly that being nearsighted, which I am, allows you to see all the goodies left by the cash register perfectly clearly without aid.) I got myself home for breakfast.
Tomorrow is a possible date, often a trigger. And Friday I've accepted an invitation to a friend's parents for Passover. That's the sort of evening I plan my next day around, so sure am I that I will binge.
But neither of those days are today. And I don't have to binge today because I might binge tomorrow or Friday.
Or so I'm telling myself.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Somehow, Unbelievably
And like a delayed reaction, like stray cancer cells that have taken root, there was a binge.
It was Sunday, more than 48 hours after the ball – and after two days of clean eating. Over the 48 hours I'd had some cravings for various things, including, honestly, a binge. Coming back from a workout in Soho on Saturday morning, I passed a bakery and – not even having seen or smelled any of their goods – had a sudden desire to go in and buy the lot.
I dismissed it as hunger and carried on home for my snack.
Sunday morning, en route to breakfast with a friend, I decided that since normally it takes me 72 hours to detox from a binge, perhaps I might need the same cooling off period from Thursday's messy eating. "If you still want what you want on Monday, you can have it then," I told myself.
Sunday afternoon I thought: "To hell with this. It's the endless delayed gratification that makes me binge in the first place, isn't it?" And so I decided to go to the Magnolia Bakery and buy a slice of cake and have it for my snack. So far, so Normal Person, right?
I should have known this would not go well when I caught myself fibbing slightly about where I needed to turn off from a friend who was heading to the subway. And then quickening my pace. And then getting extremely impatient as the wait seemed interminable. (Thanks to the bizarre hours I tend to hit the place, I've actually never waited in the queue.)
I got my cake. I ate it. It seemed... watered down, somehow. The icing not as thick, the cake insubstantial and tasteless. And yet I kept eating, like if I consumed enough it would stack up into the perfect apex of flavor and texture.
I was supposed hit a spin class at 6.30, two hours away. I had been debating hitting the barre method class just before it. Go, I told myself. Go to class. You can totally do this. One ginormous slice of cake is not a binge, and doesn't have to be.
But already I Could. Not. Stop.
A cannoli cupcake and a cinnamon streusel muffin from another bakery. A few munchkins and the worst blueberry muffin I've ever had in my life (thanks Dunkin Donuts). Cornbread and an apple slice (the baked good, not the fruit) from the Gourmet Garage, where the wry Russian behind the counter watched me grab a cake sample and said; "It's Russian coffee cake. I come all the way from Russia for zis coffee cake we do not have back home." And on it went, seven stops in all.
As embarrassed as I am to admit the seven stops, I am at least as embarrassed to admit that that did not make me full to the brim.
Stop, I kept thinking. Stop now and you can go to spin class.
And at the same time, I was afraid to. I was home, semi-safe, with at least a pause in the bingeing. If I went out again for any reason, I was risking a two-part binge. Already I was thinking about what I would pass on the way home from class.
What if I spent the whole class thinking about what I could eat after?
What if I chased a spin class with, say, a cupcake from the Crumbs bakery across the street?
Just go, I told myself. You'll have to leave the house to get dinner at some point, so you might as well go spin if you possibly can.
And somehow, unbelievably, I did.
I got to spin class and focused on getting through one song at a time.
Somehow, unbelievably, I did.
When it was over I spied a friend and agreed to get dinner with her. We went to a (healthy) place she'd been wanting to try, and when we arrived, that's when the fullness hit me. I felt too sick to eat anything, so I sat while she ate. After a couple of hours, I suddenly decided I wanted to eat, but the kitchen had closed.
When we parted ways, I stood on the street corner, wavering. I wanted rice, among other things. Should I order? Where could I go?
Home, I thought. You can go home and not buy anything you shouldn't.
I went home and had cereal for dinner (something I do more often than I'd like to admit). I debated chasing it with various other things, and then thought, sharply, that is enough. Go to bed.
Somehow, unbelievably, I did.
This morning I had agreed to meet a PR at a new boxing class. (I know I could cancel, but I really do not want to get into the pattern of thinking commitments are elastic when I binge.)
I joked to the boxing instructor that I might not be able to jump rope because I'd taken down an entire cake (little did he know...). He answered: "Oh, don't worry. I took down a chandelier once."
I envied how oblivious he was to what I meant. I wish I were.
It was Sunday, more than 48 hours after the ball – and after two days of clean eating. Over the 48 hours I'd had some cravings for various things, including, honestly, a binge. Coming back from a workout in Soho on Saturday morning, I passed a bakery and – not even having seen or smelled any of their goods – had a sudden desire to go in and buy the lot.
I dismissed it as hunger and carried on home for my snack.
Sunday morning, en route to breakfast with a friend, I decided that since normally it takes me 72 hours to detox from a binge, perhaps I might need the same cooling off period from Thursday's messy eating. "If you still want what you want on Monday, you can have it then," I told myself.
Sunday afternoon I thought: "To hell with this. It's the endless delayed gratification that makes me binge in the first place, isn't it?" And so I decided to go to the Magnolia Bakery and buy a slice of cake and have it for my snack. So far, so Normal Person, right?
I should have known this would not go well when I caught myself fibbing slightly about where I needed to turn off from a friend who was heading to the subway. And then quickening my pace. And then getting extremely impatient as the wait seemed interminable. (Thanks to the bizarre hours I tend to hit the place, I've actually never waited in the queue.)
I got my cake. I ate it. It seemed... watered down, somehow. The icing not as thick, the cake insubstantial and tasteless. And yet I kept eating, like if I consumed enough it would stack up into the perfect apex of flavor and texture.
I was supposed hit a spin class at 6.30, two hours away. I had been debating hitting the barre method class just before it. Go, I told myself. Go to class. You can totally do this. One ginormous slice of cake is not a binge, and doesn't have to be.
But already I Could. Not. Stop.
A cannoli cupcake and a cinnamon streusel muffin from another bakery. A few munchkins and the worst blueberry muffin I've ever had in my life (thanks Dunkin Donuts). Cornbread and an apple slice (the baked good, not the fruit) from the Gourmet Garage, where the wry Russian behind the counter watched me grab a cake sample and said; "It's Russian coffee cake. I come all the way from Russia for zis coffee cake we do not have back home." And on it went, seven stops in all.
As embarrassed as I am to admit the seven stops, I am at least as embarrassed to admit that that did not make me full to the brim.
Stop, I kept thinking. Stop now and you can go to spin class.
And at the same time, I was afraid to. I was home, semi-safe, with at least a pause in the bingeing. If I went out again for any reason, I was risking a two-part binge. Already I was thinking about what I would pass on the way home from class.
What if I spent the whole class thinking about what I could eat after?
What if I chased a spin class with, say, a cupcake from the Crumbs bakery across the street?
Just go, I told myself. You'll have to leave the house to get dinner at some point, so you might as well go spin if you possibly can.
And somehow, unbelievably, I did.
I got to spin class and focused on getting through one song at a time.
Somehow, unbelievably, I did.
When it was over I spied a friend and agreed to get dinner with her. We went to a (healthy) place she'd been wanting to try, and when we arrived, that's when the fullness hit me. I felt too sick to eat anything, so I sat while she ate. After a couple of hours, I suddenly decided I wanted to eat, but the kitchen had closed.
When we parted ways, I stood on the street corner, wavering. I wanted rice, among other things. Should I order? Where could I go?
Home, I thought. You can go home and not buy anything you shouldn't.
I went home and had cereal for dinner (something I do more often than I'd like to admit). I debated chasing it with various other things, and then thought, sharply, that is enough. Go to bed.
Somehow, unbelievably, I did.
This morning I had agreed to meet a PR at a new boxing class. (I know I could cancel, but I really do not want to get into the pattern of thinking commitments are elastic when I binge.)
I joked to the boxing instructor that I might not be able to jump rope because I'd taken down an entire cake (little did he know...). He answered: "Oh, don't worry. I took down a chandelier once."
I envied how oblivious he was to what I meant. I wish I were.
Saturday, 24 March 2012
Ball of Nerves
A friend posted on Facebook a photo of the ball we attended last night and tagged two friends in it but not me.
I immediately wondered: Did I look embarrassingly awful? (I work at home alone most days, which means I am no longer practiced in getting dressed properly. I sent the above photo to two friends before I got enough courage to leave the house.) Did I do something awful? Did she know?
I have a history of both drinking and eating far too much at these types of events. Last night I don't think I ever reached the point of even being tipsy, and while I definitely ate too much, I did not reach the point of feeling sick. That said I did engage in my old tried-and-true: Excuses to go sneak off alone and eat. Not good.
Earlier, in the cab en route to the festivities, I found myself noting places that might be open for après-ball bingeing. (I know; I'm crazy.) I'm proud to say that at least I did not do that, and not because I was too drunk or full. Instead, I came home and had a pear and a couple of spoonfuls of almond butter (but not, I must note, the bar of dark chocolate in my gift bag – something I'm sure I would have attacked in the taxi at one point). Did I need that food? No. But was it better than going from shop to shop, or even just tearing through any random food in my apartment? Yes.
The last bunch of times I've attended this type of event – not that I've been to anything fancy for nearly a year -- I have been so full and sick I can't sleep. Not so last night. Still I woke up sluggish. I probably would have felt better if I'd gotten up and worked out, but I had actually planned my day around the fact that I might binge – which is to say, I had not scheduled any classes (which you pay for whether you attend or not) because I just didn't know in what shape I'd be.
I still had pregnant-stomach-from-eating-too-much this morning, but I'm counting last night as progress.
Monday, 19 March 2012
A Two-Hour Tour of NYC
NYC, on a scale of 1 to 10, you're a 13.1.
Yes, I ran the NYC half marathon today – a Central Park loop, then all the way south to Water Street -- not having logged so much as a single mile since the first week in January.
I was curious whether cross-training – which I have been doing – and muscle memory would be enough to carry me through the equivalent of two 10ks plus another half mile, and it was.
(Was it my best idea? Probably not. But as part of being kinder to myself I try not to do exercise that feels like punishment, so that means not running outside in extreme cold – thanks to my Reynaud's, my fingers and toes freeze no matter how good the insulation. Running on a treadmill also feels like torture, so I do not do it. Yes, one could argue running 13.1 miles sans proper training also is torture, but I started out figuring I'd just do a 10k and then see what happened. After all, I'd already paid the crazy huge non-refundable race entry fee.)
My time, for the record: 2:05:18, or 9:34 minute miles. To be honest, it was less of a challenge to my cardiovascular system than it was to my knees/legs. Crazy, but true.
Song that got me through mile 8: "Call Me Maybe." If you have the musical tastes of a 16-year-old (I do, sometimes, when I exercise), listen to this and laugh. It is ridiculous, and yet...
***
I survived the beauty spin, by the way... not something I want to do on a regular basis (not least of which is that I don't like exercising in the evening). But I've been there, done that and have the (small) t-shirt (and the Sisley lipstick, courtesy of a beauty PR) to prove it. Ridiculous.
I am Sweaty McSweaterson in a normal workout, to the point where I sometimes feel I am performing some kind of public service – officially being the most drenched person so that no one else has to be embarrassed. Spinning turns the room into a sweatbox, so my hair look like a crazy person's (not for me, that NYC de-rigueur perfect bun on top of my head that does not move) and my clothes look like I've thrown them in the washing machine and put them on without drying them.
Beauty girls do not sweat; they glow. I eyed them and glowered.
Actually, not really – maybe it's sign of age, but I felt self conscious for about 20 seconds before shrugging it off. I'm not a "beauty girl," and thank goodness for that.
Yes, I ran the NYC half marathon today – a Central Park loop, then all the way south to Water Street -- not having logged so much as a single mile since the first week in January.
I was curious whether cross-training – which I have been doing – and muscle memory would be enough to carry me through the equivalent of two 10ks plus another half mile, and it was.
(Was it my best idea? Probably not. But as part of being kinder to myself I try not to do exercise that feels like punishment, so that means not running outside in extreme cold – thanks to my Reynaud's, my fingers and toes freeze no matter how good the insulation. Running on a treadmill also feels like torture, so I do not do it. Yes, one could argue running 13.1 miles sans proper training also is torture, but I started out figuring I'd just do a 10k and then see what happened. After all, I'd already paid the crazy huge non-refundable race entry fee.)
My time, for the record: 2:05:18, or 9:34 minute miles. To be honest, it was less of a challenge to my cardiovascular system than it was to my knees/legs. Crazy, but true.
Song that got me through mile 8: "Call Me Maybe." If you have the musical tastes of a 16-year-old (I do, sometimes, when I exercise), listen to this and laugh. It is ridiculous, and yet...
***
I survived the beauty spin, by the way... not something I want to do on a regular basis (not least of which is that I don't like exercising in the evening). But I've been there, done that and have the (small) t-shirt (and the Sisley lipstick, courtesy of a beauty PR) to prove it. Ridiculous.
I am Sweaty McSweaterson in a normal workout, to the point where I sometimes feel I am performing some kind of public service – officially being the most drenched person so that no one else has to be embarrassed. Spinning turns the room into a sweatbox, so my hair look like a crazy person's (not for me, that NYC de-rigueur perfect bun on top of my head that does not move) and my clothes look like I've thrown them in the washing machine and put them on without drying them.
Beauty girls do not sweat; they glow. I eyed them and glowered.
Actually, not really – maybe it's sign of age, but I felt self conscious for about 20 seconds before shrugging it off. I'm not a "beauty girl," and thank goodness for that.
Friday, 9 March 2012
Freaky Friday
So I have been invited to the super-exclusive beautyspin -- beauty editors (Vogue! Marie Claire! Elle!) plus beauty publicists for the luxe brands have their own weekly spin class in Union Square. (Yes, only in New York.)
They have t-shirts and they only come in size small. And I have been instructed to "rock a fun lip."
I feel like I should be spending all day prepping, in manner of prom / first date / wedding, except I have all the words in the world to write today and no time even to fix my grotty fingernail polish.
Just call me the #beautyspin (yes, it has a Twitter hashtag) girl in need of a makeover... I don't think this is going to be pretty.
They have t-shirts and they only come in size small. And I have been instructed to "rock a fun lip."
I feel like I should be spending all day prepping, in manner of prom / first date / wedding, except I have all the words in the world to write today and no time even to fix my grotty fingernail polish.
Just call me the #beautyspin (yes, it has a Twitter hashtag) girl in need of a makeover... I don't think this is going to be pretty.
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Yet
Suddenly, I am tagging every sentence with the word "yet."
I have never started a binge on cottage cheese (yet).
Or on raisins (yet).
Or on broccoli (yet).
But I could. Because only as recently as two months ago, I had never started a binge on fruit. Or Cliff bars. Or mini Luna bars that had been sitting around my apartment for at least 8 months, including through a very hot and sticky New York summer. I had not binged more than twice in a single day.
I don't cling to "well, at least I don't do X" – because I am becoming aware that it could be a matter of time.
It could be, I recognize, but it doesn't have to be. I am still in the game.
***
One Saturday morning a couple of weeks ago I was at the gym in Toronto, happily noting that my arms had a bit more definition than I'd seen in a while. Hours later I could not stop eating.
The bingeing – multiple times a day – continued all through the three-day weekend. It was so bad I could not button my coat that Monday night. I managed to get ahold of myself for three days, then plunged headlong into another round on the Friday, which carried on all that weekend.
I mostly avoided mirrors this week. I don't need to get on a scale to know I'm heavier than I've been in several years. Let's just say I was grateful that I work for myself, and didn't have to attempt to put my jeans on last Monday morning. I can say fairly confidently that they would not have fit, because today – after six days without a binge – they are uncomfortably tight.
But they are not going to get any tighter, because, you know, I am still in the game.
***
I went to Toronto to see Friend Bearing Chocolate – and to meet the Spanish-Mexican fellow Toronto expat she's been dating for a year, and that she will almost certainly marry. I was delighted for her; I was. But he publicly calls her – my reserved, Scottish friend – "Kissy," and the two of them make my friends in France look like the ice prince and princess. Let me remind you that the friends in France pass time waiting for the light to change by kissing (and often punctuate sentences that way.)
He (the soon-to-be-fiance) talks to her in a baby voice, and sings "Please Don't Go" when she heads out. Being in the same room with the two of them is to feel like you are sitting on the edge of their bed, watching.
I did not enjoy it.
On Saturday night, we went to party thrown by a 40-year-old single woman. Which I predicted would have loads of couples, a handful of random single woman the birthday girl had met at some time-filling activity or another (book club, wine club, etc), and zero single men. And I was exactly right, down to the random single women who were about 93 percent normal and only friends because they were all about the same age and single.
It was fascinating, actually, and I was so amused with watching the interactions and trying to be a good guest by running around meeting people (and also being amused having to make the distinction that I'd lived in London, England, not London,Ontario) that I was surprised at the very end of the night when this guy walked up to me.
He was 49 years old, thrice divorced, and the father of 3. Also the head janitor at a school an hour outside Toronto. He said: "Hey, I'm single" -- those exact words -- in about the first 45 seconds. All I could muster in response was: "How's that going for you?"
Oh dear.
***
I should say it's taken me this long to write a post not so much because I am as bored as you must be with the binge, lather, rinse, repeat cycle, but because I have been working a lot. Most of it is really good -- publications I love and am proud to appear in. Some days I am so busy and, yes, happy -- and grateful that I can make a living doing what I love -- that I race around feeling like a New Yorker. Whatever that is, anyway. Which makes the bingeing all the more puzzling.
And then there are other days -- like Wednesday, when I went to a reading for an oral history of London. It made me so nostalgic for London I actually could hardly bear it. The other day I walked down Bleecker Street and there was a woman carrying a bag from the Gill Wing shop, on Upper Street, which I used to pass every day. I had to pause for a moment to think where I was. There are days when I catch sight of the
Empire State building all lit up and think: "How is it that I live here? How the heck did this happen?" (Except obviously I don't say "heck.")
I did not, for the record, binge on Wednesday. Nor did I consider it. Was that because I was working on day three without bingeing and was just desperate enough not to? I don't know. I really don't. Sometimes I know that no amount of food will fill certain holes. But other times, I know and yet truly do not care.
I have never started a binge on cottage cheese (yet).
Or on raisins (yet).
Or on broccoli (yet).
But I could. Because only as recently as two months ago, I had never started a binge on fruit. Or Cliff bars. Or mini Luna bars that had been sitting around my apartment for at least 8 months, including through a very hot and sticky New York summer. I had not binged more than twice in a single day.
I don't cling to "well, at least I don't do X" – because I am becoming aware that it could be a matter of time.
It could be, I recognize, but it doesn't have to be. I am still in the game.
***
One Saturday morning a couple of weeks ago I was at the gym in Toronto, happily noting that my arms had a bit more definition than I'd seen in a while. Hours later I could not stop eating.
The bingeing – multiple times a day – continued all through the three-day weekend. It was so bad I could not button my coat that Monday night. I managed to get ahold of myself for three days, then plunged headlong into another round on the Friday, which carried on all that weekend.
I mostly avoided mirrors this week. I don't need to get on a scale to know I'm heavier than I've been in several years. Let's just say I was grateful that I work for myself, and didn't have to attempt to put my jeans on last Monday morning. I can say fairly confidently that they would not have fit, because today – after six days without a binge – they are uncomfortably tight.
But they are not going to get any tighter, because, you know, I am still in the game.
***
I went to Toronto to see Friend Bearing Chocolate – and to meet the Spanish-Mexican fellow Toronto expat she's been dating for a year, and that she will almost certainly marry. I was delighted for her; I was. But he publicly calls her – my reserved, Scottish friend – "Kissy," and the two of them make my friends in France look like the ice prince and princess. Let me remind you that the friends in France pass time waiting for the light to change by kissing (and often punctuate sentences that way.)
He (the soon-to-be-fiance) talks to her in a baby voice, and sings "Please Don't Go" when she heads out. Being in the same room with the two of them is to feel like you are sitting on the edge of their bed, watching.
I did not enjoy it.
On Saturday night, we went to party thrown by a 40-year-old single woman. Which I predicted would have loads of couples, a handful of random single woman the birthday girl had met at some time-filling activity or another (book club, wine club, etc), and zero single men. And I was exactly right, down to the random single women who were about 93 percent normal and only friends because they were all about the same age and single.
It was fascinating, actually, and I was so amused with watching the interactions and trying to be a good guest by running around meeting people (and also being amused having to make the distinction that I'd lived in London, England, not London,Ontario) that I was surprised at the very end of the night when this guy walked up to me.
He was 49 years old, thrice divorced, and the father of 3. Also the head janitor at a school an hour outside Toronto. He said: "Hey, I'm single" -- those exact words -- in about the first 45 seconds. All I could muster in response was: "How's that going for you?"
Oh dear.
***
I should say it's taken me this long to write a post not so much because I am as bored as you must be with the binge, lather, rinse, repeat cycle, but because I have been working a lot. Most of it is really good -- publications I love and am proud to appear in. Some days I am so busy and, yes, happy -- and grateful that I can make a living doing what I love -- that I race around feeling like a New Yorker. Whatever that is, anyway. Which makes the bingeing all the more puzzling.
And then there are other days -- like Wednesday, when I went to a reading for an oral history of London. It made me so nostalgic for London I actually could hardly bear it. The other day I walked down Bleecker Street and there was a woman carrying a bag from the Gill Wing shop, on Upper Street, which I used to pass every day. I had to pause for a moment to think where I was. There are days when I catch sight of the
Empire State building all lit up and think: "How is it that I live here? How the heck did this happen?" (Except obviously I don't say "heck.")
I did not, for the record, binge on Wednesday. Nor did I consider it. Was that because I was working on day three without bingeing and was just desperate enough not to? I don't know. I really don't. Sometimes I know that no amount of food will fill certain holes. But other times, I know and yet truly do not care.
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want
[Disclaimer: I fully realize anyone still left reading must be awfully bloody tired of reading about binges and recovering from them, but that seems to be my life these days. And this string of binges over the past few weeks has been the most consistent bingeing I've done in more than five years.]
Another week, another binge: This one on at a boring Super Bowl Sunday party I attended with a friend. A couple of renegade pigs in blankets kicked off the binge, which then degenerated into sneaking out to the Duane Reade, and then coming up with reasons to disappear on my own into the multiple levels of the party so I could hit up various buffets.
I felt so wretched, defeated, sweaty, sick and disgusted on Monday morning – and yet still wanting to eat – that I debated taking a Percoset I had leftover from my wisdom tooth extraction just so I could sleep all day. What I wanted, besides to feel normal, was to get through one day without bingeing, which it did not feel like I would ever be able to do again.
I didn't take the Percoset (or Advil PM, the alternate). Instead I struggled to sit upright and concentrate long enough to file my story. I had skipped breakfast – too full at the time – but I ended up eating it sometime after dinner, rationalizing that it was all in a day's calories. Messy. Then I ate a couple of S'mores balance bars I had in the refrigerator, a couple of Kind bars, and some other bits. What I had really wanted was an ice cream sandwich like the one I'd had the night before, but I was both lazy and afraid to venture out for it. It wasn't even about the calories at that point – it was more that I knew myself, and that if for some reason the ice cream sandwich didn't satisfy whatever urge I had (and if history is any guide, there was little reason to think it would), it would kick off an epic binge.
Finally I decided to go have it. It tasted OK, but still I wanted more. I stood on the corner, debating a trip to the CVS to buy some diet soda. Next door to the CVS is a Dunkin Donuts. I could almost taste the sugary sweet glaze – and could almost feel just how sick I would feel the next morning, because there was no way I would have just one.
I walked resolutely into the CVS. Usually when I go in there I just buy my soda or toilet paper as if on autopilot, but this time I went looking for trouble. I debated ice cream sandwiches (another brand) and all manner of the sort of disgusting cheap pastry and chocolate on which I like to binge.
Today already is a wash, I thought. You can just try again tomorrow. I thought about the fact that I had to attend evening events for the next two nights, and how bad it already was going to be to try to find something to wear to them. Full-out bingeing another day in a row just would make it worse. Then, of course, that only made me want to binge more – so I could have the evening off from worrying about it (and the other fashion week events I had on tap, and whether I would climb out of this binge.)
I don't know how, but I went home without buying anything else to eat. I might have eaten something else at home; I can't remember. But it wasn't an epic binge.
Tuesday I woke up feeling, for lack of a better word, unwilling. The hours stretching before me felt like a mountain up which I did not want to trudge. I dragged myself to a spin class, which I did half-heartedly. I put one foot in front of the other and then headed off the debate I had to attend. That was followed by a book party, where I met the daytime bartender at the Carlyle Hotel (who quickly pointed out his girlfriend) and a tattooed, pierced video production guy who I thought might be gay but instead punctuated his story of how he and his girlfriend re-met at their 10-year college reunion by kissing her throughout. I did not binge. Narrowly.
And then came Wednesday, a fashion show to kick off New York Fashion Week featuring aging supermodels, B/C-list actresses (Minka Kelly, Rose McGowan), and, er, Cindi Leive, the editor of Glamour magazine. I had some champagne and started contemplating the canapés. Instead I sneaked into the bathroom and ate the dinner I'd brought (the evening was supposed to be quite long). I pawed through the VIP gift bag to see if there were anything to eat. No such luck. (What was I expecting at a fashion show? Though there was a Subway gift card..) The person who'd invited me – an old contact – decided she wanted to skip the afterparty and go to dinner, and I could not see telling her I'd already eaten (since the pre-show had started at 5.30 pm).
We waited for the car service and I tried to figure out if there were any way I could sneak off and get something to take the edge off. I wanted chocolate. I wanted to feel full. I did not want to sit through a polite dinner – and I feared a second dinner (my own had been smallish, but still) would kick off (what else?) a binge later. But there was no way to sneak off.
I had bread, dinner, all of the amuse bouches served in between (contact is a serious VIP at that particular restaurant), cocktails and dessert. I fought down the urge to attempt to sneak out for more, partly because we were in Midtown East (a desert at night in terms of bodega-type places), and partly because it was freezing. I worked hard to concentrate on each word she said instead of the debate raging in my head. It was like taking a spin class, I told myself: Instead of focusing on getting through one song at a time, just focus on the words.
When we left I was still sneaking the mints from the car service – not a good omen. (In England my playing with the brown sugar cubes – translation, eating them – usually portends a binge.) My thoughts drifted to Magnolia Bakery, which I knew was still open. Maybe I could just have a piece of cake and go home and go to bed...
I did not want the cake. Well, I did, but the cake was not going to give me what I wanted, which was a feeling of ease and lightness and that I am OK and that everything will be OK and I will not always be alone. In my circle there has been a spate of babies and announcements that babies are coming – and while I cannot even say for sure whether I want one, I cannot help feeling that sooner or later I will not have that choice. There is this almost daily feeling that I am getting farther and farther behind in the game of Life (yes, I picture the board game) and that I will never be able to catch up. (Pause to note irony that my most recent New York Times article was a wedding trend story.)
I thought about the cake – a two-minute break (if I could even make it last that long) from dealing. I wanted to dive into it and pull the frosting up over my head.
And then I thought about how hard picking myself up the next day would be – harder, probably, than saying no to the cake tonight. I imagined stopping would be like stopping just before the top of a steep hill on a bicycle. It's nearly impossible to pedal to the top at that point. Or some other tortured analogy that made sense at the time.
Despite feeling lethargic and just plain large and having a lot of events to attend, I have not binged again. (I nearly typed a "yet.") This week is also crazy, and then I am off to see Friend Bearing Chocolate in Toronto.
One day at a time, It's all I can do.
PS I may just be saving my Percoset for Fall 2012, which is when several designers have assured me that the "must have" piece is sequin pants (of the American variety). I nearly had to bite my tongue not to say: "Must-have for whom?"
Another week, another binge: This one on at a boring Super Bowl Sunday party I attended with a friend. A couple of renegade pigs in blankets kicked off the binge, which then degenerated into sneaking out to the Duane Reade, and then coming up with reasons to disappear on my own into the multiple levels of the party so I could hit up various buffets.
I felt so wretched, defeated, sweaty, sick and disgusted on Monday morning – and yet still wanting to eat – that I debated taking a Percoset I had leftover from my wisdom tooth extraction just so I could sleep all day. What I wanted, besides to feel normal, was to get through one day without bingeing, which it did not feel like I would ever be able to do again.
I didn't take the Percoset (or Advil PM, the alternate). Instead I struggled to sit upright and concentrate long enough to file my story. I had skipped breakfast – too full at the time – but I ended up eating it sometime after dinner, rationalizing that it was all in a day's calories. Messy. Then I ate a couple of S'mores balance bars I had in the refrigerator, a couple of Kind bars, and some other bits. What I had really wanted was an ice cream sandwich like the one I'd had the night before, but I was both lazy and afraid to venture out for it. It wasn't even about the calories at that point – it was more that I knew myself, and that if for some reason the ice cream sandwich didn't satisfy whatever urge I had (and if history is any guide, there was little reason to think it would), it would kick off an epic binge.
Finally I decided to go have it. It tasted OK, but still I wanted more. I stood on the corner, debating a trip to the CVS to buy some diet soda. Next door to the CVS is a Dunkin Donuts. I could almost taste the sugary sweet glaze – and could almost feel just how sick I would feel the next morning, because there was no way I would have just one.
I walked resolutely into the CVS. Usually when I go in there I just buy my soda or toilet paper as if on autopilot, but this time I went looking for trouble. I debated ice cream sandwiches (another brand) and all manner of the sort of disgusting cheap pastry and chocolate on which I like to binge.
Today already is a wash, I thought. You can just try again tomorrow. I thought about the fact that I had to attend evening events for the next two nights, and how bad it already was going to be to try to find something to wear to them. Full-out bingeing another day in a row just would make it worse. Then, of course, that only made me want to binge more – so I could have the evening off from worrying about it (and the other fashion week events I had on tap, and whether I would climb out of this binge.)
I don't know how, but I went home without buying anything else to eat. I might have eaten something else at home; I can't remember. But it wasn't an epic binge.
Tuesday I woke up feeling, for lack of a better word, unwilling. The hours stretching before me felt like a mountain up which I did not want to trudge. I dragged myself to a spin class, which I did half-heartedly. I put one foot in front of the other and then headed off the debate I had to attend. That was followed by a book party, where I met the daytime bartender at the Carlyle Hotel (who quickly pointed out his girlfriend) and a tattooed, pierced video production guy who I thought might be gay but instead punctuated his story of how he and his girlfriend re-met at their 10-year college reunion by kissing her throughout. I did not binge. Narrowly.
And then came Wednesday, a fashion show to kick off New York Fashion Week featuring aging supermodels, B/C-list actresses (Minka Kelly, Rose McGowan), and, er, Cindi Leive, the editor of Glamour magazine. I had some champagne and started contemplating the canapés. Instead I sneaked into the bathroom and ate the dinner I'd brought (the evening was supposed to be quite long). I pawed through the VIP gift bag to see if there were anything to eat. No such luck. (What was I expecting at a fashion show? Though there was a Subway gift card..) The person who'd invited me – an old contact – decided she wanted to skip the afterparty and go to dinner, and I could not see telling her I'd already eaten (since the pre-show had started at 5.30 pm).
We waited for the car service and I tried to figure out if there were any way I could sneak off and get something to take the edge off. I wanted chocolate. I wanted to feel full. I did not want to sit through a polite dinner – and I feared a second dinner (my own had been smallish, but still) would kick off (what else?) a binge later. But there was no way to sneak off.
I had bread, dinner, all of the amuse bouches served in between (contact is a serious VIP at that particular restaurant), cocktails and dessert. I fought down the urge to attempt to sneak out for more, partly because we were in Midtown East (a desert at night in terms of bodega-type places), and partly because it was freezing. I worked hard to concentrate on each word she said instead of the debate raging in my head. It was like taking a spin class, I told myself: Instead of focusing on getting through one song at a time, just focus on the words.
When we left I was still sneaking the mints from the car service – not a good omen. (In England my playing with the brown sugar cubes – translation, eating them – usually portends a binge.) My thoughts drifted to Magnolia Bakery, which I knew was still open. Maybe I could just have a piece of cake and go home and go to bed...
I did not want the cake. Well, I did, but the cake was not going to give me what I wanted, which was a feeling of ease and lightness and that I am OK and that everything will be OK and I will not always be alone. In my circle there has been a spate of babies and announcements that babies are coming – and while I cannot even say for sure whether I want one, I cannot help feeling that sooner or later I will not have that choice. There is this almost daily feeling that I am getting farther and farther behind in the game of Life (yes, I picture the board game) and that I will never be able to catch up. (Pause to note irony that my most recent New York Times article was a wedding trend story.)
I thought about the cake – a two-minute break (if I could even make it last that long) from dealing. I wanted to dive into it and pull the frosting up over my head.
And then I thought about how hard picking myself up the next day would be – harder, probably, than saying no to the cake tonight. I imagined stopping would be like stopping just before the top of a steep hill on a bicycle. It's nearly impossible to pedal to the top at that point. Or some other tortured analogy that made sense at the time.
Despite feeling lethargic and just plain large and having a lot of events to attend, I have not binged again. (I nearly typed a "yet.") This week is also crazy, and then I am off to see Friend Bearing Chocolate in Toronto.
One day at a time, It's all I can do.
PS I may just be saving my Percoset for Fall 2012, which is when several designers have assured me that the "must have" piece is sequin pants (of the American variety). I nearly had to bite my tongue not to say: "Must-have for whom?"
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