It's 9 am here in New York, and today is technically Day 1. But when you factor in time change it's been at least 24 hours since I've binged, and considering that involved a transatlantic trip (travelling is usually a huge binge trigger for me) and that over the previous two weeks I binged nearly every day, I'll take it.
Frankly, even if it didn't include a transatlantic plane trip, I'll take it.
It is here that I will confess that on the plane trip I debated buying in-flight duty free chocolate and bingeing on it. I also debated eating at least one and maybe both of the Cadbury Flakes I'd bought for my editor, reasoning that I was going to try to avoid going in to the office to meet her for couple of weeks, and that I have a friend coming over from England then anyway who could "import" them. And I don't even particularly like Cadbury Flakes (unless one is stuck in my ice cream cone), but that is, as always, besides the point.
On my last night in London, I stayed at the Savoy, and each time I walked down the Strand it was like swerving to avoid ghosts, only to bump into other ones. I used to work just off the Strand, in a big white wedding cake of a building on Waterloo Bridge, and nearly every step and every shop stirred up floods of memories, and with them, sadness and regret for opportunities wasted. I could have done such a better job living my life if only I could have some of those opportunities now. Sigh.
There's the Next where I somewhat frantically yet gleefully had to buy a top before work because I'd come in from (unexpectedly) spending the night in Oxford nearly nine years ago. (The filmmaker; a very short-lived relationship.) Villiers Street, with Gordon's Wine Bar, the little sushi place where often I'd pick up lunch, and a random pub where I once had a very strange date with an American. The Pizza Express I remember having a dinner with a friend on one of my first nights in London – the night I learned that Embankment and Charing Cross are barely a two-minute walk (and, for some reason, I remember bingeing on the way home). The Virgin Active, which used to be a Holmes Place, which was my gym for years – and from which I'd walk to my office, even when we moved south of the river. I also remember nearly falling asleep in a midday yoga class the day after a date with the Fig. The Coal Hole, where I once had a date with a guy who I later found out was engaged. Adam Street, home of the private members club to which my boss belonged, and where, very early in our relationship, BN2 and I went to an event where (a) I later learned he picked up another woman, (b) he was late because of what would be the first of many skirmishes in his custody battle, and (c) I sneaked out to binge (at the Leon on the corner, I believe). The Topshop where I remember getting a call from the man who eventually became my boss while standing in the dressing room. An Italian restaurant where we had an office Christmas lunch. The Superdrug where an intern used to buy her lunch: always the pick-a-mix. The Tesco that used to be a newsagent. The Caffe Nero on Waterloo Bridge where I met a Wallpaper* travel editor on one of my first days in London, and – after I got my job – I could see from my office window every day... Even the Savoy itself, where I went for drinks just before I left London with a friend who no longer is. And on and on it goes...
I left New York on Thursday the 21st for Washington DC, and headed to London that Sunday. I got back late last night. I binged nearly every day, violent binges, sometimes more than one in a day. Some days I'd make it through until 10 pm without bingeing and then start. (I counted up I managed just three days without bingeing, four if you count the whole Sunday at the airport – long story – plus plane trip out, where I overate but didn't binge.) Before I left on this trip I remembered looking around my apartment in New York and wondering if anything would fit when I returned, and it has come true. I caught sight of myself in the mirrored arrivals hall at Newark Airport last night and thought: Who is that fat girl?
And it is me.
I want to go away and hide for at least a month. I've had moments like this before: One particular trip when I returned from about two weeks at the Venice film festival having binged every day, and put on nearly two sizes. Or a month-long work trip to Africa, where I did the same – and ended up gaining back all the weight I'd lost in 2004. Wednesday night at the ballet I was so crashing from sugar I could hardly keep my eyes open – and I had that old familiar feeling, not felt for so long, of being dressed inappropriately because it was the only thing that fit, and feeling passed over for conversation because I was overweight. At the reception – a friend of a friend is a patron – one woman turned away from me mid-conversation, and another guy turned abruptly and disappeared. It could have been a coincidence, yes, but it didn't feel like one.
I've thought about going to see a nutritionist, but I already know what she would say, and anyway, I don't need a diet. In fact, too much restriction could be disastrous. I have thought about giving up sugar, since over the past week and a half it really did seem to unleash my demons. I would think to myself: I'm just going to get a Ben's Cookie, or a macaron, or a cupcake, or whatever it was I thought I wanted – you know, like a normal person -- and I would have one and just not be able to stop.
I have a huge story due tomorrow that I'm terrified about, so for right now I am just trying to keep it simple and not binge. I'm also going to try to post daily, for accountability's sake.
Thursday, 5 July 2012
Sunday, 1 July 2012
Present Tense
One side effect of having a job that constantly required me to recognize people is that I often think I do – and often I am wrong.
This time I wasn’t.
I was sitting in a Caffe Nero on the Fulham Road, and I looked up from an article I was working on. I caught a glimpse of a familiar posture at a faraway table, although the frame looked a little to heavy to be the guy I was thinking of, who was freakishly thin.
He got up, went to the bathroom, and when he came back I saw his face. It was him – the guy I dated right when I moved to London. I met him on the third day I was here.
“I haven’t seen you for ages,” he said.
“I moved to New York,” I said.
We talked about his half-brother, who I’d read had died of a drug overdose while on a gap year in India a couple of years ago. And about his dad, who was dying of Alzheimers. He told me he and the Russian not-wife (not being catty; just that they’re both north of 40 and seems funny to call her a girlfriend) are having a baby in a couple of days. It’s a boy they’re calling Michael, F’s father’s middle name.
“Are you in a relationship?” he asked.
I didn’t answer this one as coolly as I would have liked. I stammered something out, somewhat surprised that he asked – and that we seemed to be having a more personal conversation than any we had when we were dating.
He recommended a book I should read. I realized I have no idea what his taste in books is, and if it is at all similar to mine.
Sweet mystery of life.
This time I wasn’t.
I was sitting in a Caffe Nero on the Fulham Road, and I looked up from an article I was working on. I caught a glimpse of a familiar posture at a faraway table, although the frame looked a little to heavy to be the guy I was thinking of, who was freakishly thin.
He got up, went to the bathroom, and when he came back I saw his face. It was him – the guy I dated right when I moved to London. I met him on the third day I was here.
“I haven’t seen you for ages,” he said.
“I moved to New York,” I said.
We talked about his half-brother, who I’d read had died of a drug overdose while on a gap year in India a couple of years ago. And about his dad, who was dying of Alzheimers. He told me he and the Russian not-wife (not being catty; just that they’re both north of 40 and seems funny to call her a girlfriend) are having a baby in a couple of days. It’s a boy they’re calling Michael, F’s father’s middle name.
“Are you in a relationship?” he asked.
I didn’t answer this one as coolly as I would have liked. I stammered something out, somewhat surprised that he asked – and that we seemed to be having a more personal conversation than any we had when we were dating.
He recommended a book I should read. I realized I have no idea what his taste in books is, and if it is at all similar to mine.
Sweet mystery of life.
Friday, 29 June 2012
London Calling
“How’s BN2?” the instructor said suddenly today, mid-workout.
I’m in London, and was at my favorite Heartcore Pilates, with the very instructor who taught us the day I dragged BN2 to class at least three years ago. (I’ve been living in New York for 18 months, BN2 and I split up nearly a year before I moved, and I seem to recall the time we went together was in the summer.)
I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been, actually. I haven’t been to London for nearly a year (I believe last year I landed on July 1), and every step I take – and I love to walk in London – unleashes a flood of memories. It’s not unpleasant; just loaded with psychic baggage. Like walking at the bottom of a pool.
Wednesday night I went to Putney, where I lived all but fulltime for two of the darkest years of my life. I did not see BN2, thankfully, but it was like stumbling into the soundstage where my nightmares are shot. I nearly cried walking over Putney Bridge, remembering all the journeys I’d made there and the dread of what mood he might be in when I arrived. And I realized I didn’t fully exhale until a couple of hours later, when I crossed back to the north side of the river.
***
Today is a year to the day since I left the horrible job – the job for which I gave up my entire life in London. I stop myself from saying the job is the worst thing that ever happened to me because (1) it isn’t, and (2) frankly, I should be so lucky that the worst thing that happens to me in my entire life is a high-paying job at a prestigious company. Hello, first world problem.
It has been a long, hard year, and I’ve learned an awful lot. And I’m almost afraid to say it, lest it be taken away, but lately I have been having a seriously good time. I still work far too many hours and pull all-nighters freaking out over my New York Times stories (the last one – yowza! I tried and tried and tried to write it but just could not get anything down on paper until 3 am. I swear with every story I keep waiting for an editor to say: OK, that’s it. You’ve failed your way upward but it is all going to stop now.) But on Saturday morning (yes, the work spills all over the place), I slammed my laptop shut after speaking to a source in Nicaragua for an hour and thought: I love my job. Yes, I am self-employed and sometime my boss really sucks (honestly, what is she thinking doing some of these stories?), but I am actually making a living doing something I love to bits. I almost can’t believe it.
***
So if life is so great, why am I bingeing so damn much?
Last Thursday I hit 21 days without bingeing, which happens to be more than I have managed since February, when I hit about 25 days. Then on Friday, in Washington DC for some meetings (and then my triplet nephews’ second birthday party Saturday), I started bingeing that evening and could not stop. I binged for five days, off and on – through the birthday party, but somehow not during the six hours of queuing when my flight was cancelled or on the flight itself (though I did overeat on it). Then in Oxford (what’s a nice Jewish girl like me doing at Jesus College, you ask? Me, too), and again on my first day in London on the 26th, when I made it through the whole day and then started bingeing at 10 pm. Five days of bingeing is more days in a row than I have done in at least a year, and possible not since 2006.
I promised myself that if I could not stop bingeing I would have to get on a plane back home, because if I’m bingeing, I am not really here. I am off in my head, plotting what and where and how much and how on earth I’m going to get it.
But I didn’t binge yesterday, and I have not binged today. I have eaten more than usual, and had an extra snack both days. I’d like to say I don’t really care, which is almost true. It is a relief not to be bingeing. Now if only anything in my suitcase fit besides a maxidress… and, um, my gym clothes.
I’m in London, and was at my favorite Heartcore Pilates, with the very instructor who taught us the day I dragged BN2 to class at least three years ago. (I’ve been living in New York for 18 months, BN2 and I split up nearly a year before I moved, and I seem to recall the time we went together was in the summer.)
I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been, actually. I haven’t been to London for nearly a year (I believe last year I landed on July 1), and every step I take – and I love to walk in London – unleashes a flood of memories. It’s not unpleasant; just loaded with psychic baggage. Like walking at the bottom of a pool.
Wednesday night I went to Putney, where I lived all but fulltime for two of the darkest years of my life. I did not see BN2, thankfully, but it was like stumbling into the soundstage where my nightmares are shot. I nearly cried walking over Putney Bridge, remembering all the journeys I’d made there and the dread of what mood he might be in when I arrived. And I realized I didn’t fully exhale until a couple of hours later, when I crossed back to the north side of the river.
***
Today is a year to the day since I left the horrible job – the job for which I gave up my entire life in London. I stop myself from saying the job is the worst thing that ever happened to me because (1) it isn’t, and (2) frankly, I should be so lucky that the worst thing that happens to me in my entire life is a high-paying job at a prestigious company. Hello, first world problem.
It has been a long, hard year, and I’ve learned an awful lot. And I’m almost afraid to say it, lest it be taken away, but lately I have been having a seriously good time. I still work far too many hours and pull all-nighters freaking out over my New York Times stories (the last one – yowza! I tried and tried and tried to write it but just could not get anything down on paper until 3 am. I swear with every story I keep waiting for an editor to say: OK, that’s it. You’ve failed your way upward but it is all going to stop now.) But on Saturday morning (yes, the work spills all over the place), I slammed my laptop shut after speaking to a source in Nicaragua for an hour and thought: I love my job. Yes, I am self-employed and sometime my boss really sucks (honestly, what is she thinking doing some of these stories?), but I am actually making a living doing something I love to bits. I almost can’t believe it.
***
So if life is so great, why am I bingeing so damn much?
Last Thursday I hit 21 days without bingeing, which happens to be more than I have managed since February, when I hit about 25 days. Then on Friday, in Washington DC for some meetings (and then my triplet nephews’ second birthday party Saturday), I started bingeing that evening and could not stop. I binged for five days, off and on – through the birthday party, but somehow not during the six hours of queuing when my flight was cancelled or on the flight itself (though I did overeat on it). Then in Oxford (what’s a nice Jewish girl like me doing at Jesus College, you ask? Me, too), and again on my first day in London on the 26th, when I made it through the whole day and then started bingeing at 10 pm. Five days of bingeing is more days in a row than I have done in at least a year, and possible not since 2006.
I promised myself that if I could not stop bingeing I would have to get on a plane back home, because if I’m bingeing, I am not really here. I am off in my head, plotting what and where and how much and how on earth I’m going to get it.
But I didn’t binge yesterday, and I have not binged today. I have eaten more than usual, and had an extra snack both days. I’d like to say I don’t really care, which is almost true. It is a relief not to be bingeing. Now if only anything in my suitcase fit besides a maxidress… and, um, my gym clothes.
Sunday, 20 May 2012
Come On, Skinny Love
Disappointed.
That's what I said I was when a guy cancelled our second date at 4.30 pm because, as he said, he was tired and cranky and did not feel like coming back to Manhattan (he lives in Brooklyn) and just wanted to sit on his couch and watch basketball and drink beer – and that he'd make it up to me.
I always have had trouble expressing how I feel (when it is not positive) and then sitting through the discomfort of the reaction. So much easier just to eat – or to say it's all OK. Except it wasn't. The e-mail made me alternately sad, angry and depressed, and plunged me into a deep despair. Over a guy I don't even think was the man of my dreams – just a man I actually wanted to go on a second date with, something that has not occurred for a very long time.
I did not respond immediately because I didn't have the energy. I went to a barre method exercise class I had booked and dragged myself through it. I felt a little better by the end of it, but when I left the studio everything weighed on me again.
I trudged through the evening as if moving underwater, knowing perfectly well that eating would not help yet wanting to do it anyway. I did not.
Late that night, I wrote, along with the fact that I was disappointed, that I was sorry he'd had a crummy day, and that I hoped things looked better in the morning. He'd alluded to a not-great week, which I know included the same difficult holiday mine did: Mothers Day, when yours is not alive. (Not that it's a competition, but my week also included a birthday I found surprisingly tough: 37.)
He responded the next morning with a single line: "I'm sorry I disappointed you."
Was this the best place to practice saying how I feel? I am doubtful, but it's done now.
***
Last night – fresh off the above and the news that an old friend I have long harbored feelings for is in a relationship that, he told me, he considers "permanent" – what did I do?
I went to a singles event at an art gallery in Chelsea.
Let me state for the record that my friend B goes to a bunch of these – with quite good luck; she's flirty and pretty; easily the catch of the room -- and texted me Friday to ask if I'd join her. I have been to one other one, which was spectacularly bad: a ratio of at least 8 women to every man, and most of the men either old, short, dull, weird, shy-to-the-point-of-struck-dumb or some combination of the above.
Text message from B as I am running slightly late: "Just saw guy I was dating go in. I'll wait for you outside."
When I arrived she told me there was one guy she'd dated and another she'd hooked up with. Then we went upstairs and a woman standing by the elevator greeted us with: "There's a lot of ladies in there."
I began to wonder if there would be anyone to talk with who wasn't a B castoff.
Answer: Not really.
Strange evening. Made all the stranger by a 30-year-old black guy – the only one in the room, as he told us repeatedly (as if we couldn't tell) – attaching himself to us (B had been chatting to him) and proceeding to challenge almost everything I said. I didn't want to be there, didn't want to talk to him, and certainly did not want to deal with questions such as "Let me ask you something: Do you have a complex about things getting complex?"
He joined us for drinks after, first trying to insist we go to some place in Union Square where apparently celebrities go (that was all I needed to hear to know I didn't want to go there). When B and I started talking about a trip she's planning to Spain and Morocco, he all but demanded we change the subject because he couldn't contribute. He also kept touching my knee, which made me very uncomfortable. I could not think of a polite way to say, "Cut that sh*t out right this minute." I'm sure my face reflected my displeasure – I am crap at hiding things.
And at the end of the night, B announced she was catching the bus and he asked me what I was doing.
"I'm going to walk," I said.
"Which way are you going?" he asked.
"I am going to clear my head," I said firmly.
"So...?"
"I just want to listen to my music and clear my head," I said.
"Well," he said, injecting the word with about as much disapproval as I've ever heard.
Normally this sort of tension -- being trapped and frustrated -- might well have made me binge. But last night, badly as I wanted to, I thought fiercely: I am not going to do it over this twit.
***
To the singles event I wore a dress I bought in Venice in 2009, when I was there with BN2. It was supposed to be his birthday present to me, but I don't think he ever gave me the money for it. I never wore it, left it at
my grandmother's, and promptly forgot about it until I was in Miami in December.
It is one spring/summer dress I know fits, and – I fear – one of the only things.
It has been a rough 2012 on that front.
I don't weigh myself, so I can't give you numbers, but clothes don't fit and I feel ginormous and like I want to hide from the sun. I know part of this is New York body dysmorphia (this is the place where any double digit size is the easiest to find on a sale rack), but part of it is grounded in fact. I am bigger than I was.
And I keep hitting what seems like new bottoms in terms of what I binge on (almond butter and peanut butter are two things; both things I used to keep around the house with no problem) and when was I ever a person whose binges required pizza? (Answer: Never.)
Thanks to injury I cannot exercise the way I used to, which adds another layer of frustration.
And yet, and yet. I amassed 17 days without a binge, binged for two days, and then picked myself up. After two days binge-free I spent the entire evening of the third desperate to do so – but just could not face the idea of waking up on my birthday post-binge.
Sometimes in the moment the consequences are not enough to keep me from doing it, but this time, luckily, it was.
Eight days binge free.
That's what I said I was when a guy cancelled our second date at 4.30 pm because, as he said, he was tired and cranky and did not feel like coming back to Manhattan (he lives in Brooklyn) and just wanted to sit on his couch and watch basketball and drink beer – and that he'd make it up to me.
I always have had trouble expressing how I feel (when it is not positive) and then sitting through the discomfort of the reaction. So much easier just to eat – or to say it's all OK. Except it wasn't. The e-mail made me alternately sad, angry and depressed, and plunged me into a deep despair. Over a guy I don't even think was the man of my dreams – just a man I actually wanted to go on a second date with, something that has not occurred for a very long time.
I did not respond immediately because I didn't have the energy. I went to a barre method exercise class I had booked and dragged myself through it. I felt a little better by the end of it, but when I left the studio everything weighed on me again.
I trudged through the evening as if moving underwater, knowing perfectly well that eating would not help yet wanting to do it anyway. I did not.
Late that night, I wrote, along with the fact that I was disappointed, that I was sorry he'd had a crummy day, and that I hoped things looked better in the morning. He'd alluded to a not-great week, which I know included the same difficult holiday mine did: Mothers Day, when yours is not alive. (Not that it's a competition, but my week also included a birthday I found surprisingly tough: 37.)
He responded the next morning with a single line: "I'm sorry I disappointed you."
Was this the best place to practice saying how I feel? I am doubtful, but it's done now.
***
Last night – fresh off the above and the news that an old friend I have long harbored feelings for is in a relationship that, he told me, he considers "permanent" – what did I do?
I went to a singles event at an art gallery in Chelsea.
Let me state for the record that my friend B goes to a bunch of these – with quite good luck; she's flirty and pretty; easily the catch of the room -- and texted me Friday to ask if I'd join her. I have been to one other one, which was spectacularly bad: a ratio of at least 8 women to every man, and most of the men either old, short, dull, weird, shy-to-the-point-of-struck-dumb or some combination of the above.
Text message from B as I am running slightly late: "Just saw guy I was dating go in. I'll wait for you outside."
When I arrived she told me there was one guy she'd dated and another she'd hooked up with. Then we went upstairs and a woman standing by the elevator greeted us with: "There's a lot of ladies in there."
I began to wonder if there would be anyone to talk with who wasn't a B castoff.
Answer: Not really.
Strange evening. Made all the stranger by a 30-year-old black guy – the only one in the room, as he told us repeatedly (as if we couldn't tell) – attaching himself to us (B had been chatting to him) and proceeding to challenge almost everything I said. I didn't want to be there, didn't want to talk to him, and certainly did not want to deal with questions such as "Let me ask you something: Do you have a complex about things getting complex?"
He joined us for drinks after, first trying to insist we go to some place in Union Square where apparently celebrities go (that was all I needed to hear to know I didn't want to go there). When B and I started talking about a trip she's planning to Spain and Morocco, he all but demanded we change the subject because he couldn't contribute. He also kept touching my knee, which made me very uncomfortable. I could not think of a polite way to say, "Cut that sh*t out right this minute." I'm sure my face reflected my displeasure – I am crap at hiding things.
And at the end of the night, B announced she was catching the bus and he asked me what I was doing.
"I'm going to walk," I said.
"Which way are you going?" he asked.
"I am going to clear my head," I said firmly.
"So...?"
"I just want to listen to my music and clear my head," I said.
"Well," he said, injecting the word with about as much disapproval as I've ever heard.
Normally this sort of tension -- being trapped and frustrated -- might well have made me binge. But last night, badly as I wanted to, I thought fiercely: I am not going to do it over this twit.
***
To the singles event I wore a dress I bought in Venice in 2009, when I was there with BN2. It was supposed to be his birthday present to me, but I don't think he ever gave me the money for it. I never wore it, left it at
my grandmother's, and promptly forgot about it until I was in Miami in December.
It is one spring/summer dress I know fits, and – I fear – one of the only things.
It has been a rough 2012 on that front.
I don't weigh myself, so I can't give you numbers, but clothes don't fit and I feel ginormous and like I want to hide from the sun. I know part of this is New York body dysmorphia (this is the place where any double digit size is the easiest to find on a sale rack), but part of it is grounded in fact. I am bigger than I was.
And I keep hitting what seems like new bottoms in terms of what I binge on (almond butter and peanut butter are two things; both things I used to keep around the house with no problem) and when was I ever a person whose binges required pizza? (Answer: Never.)
Thanks to injury I cannot exercise the way I used to, which adds another layer of frustration.
And yet, and yet. I amassed 17 days without a binge, binged for two days, and then picked myself up. After two days binge-free I spent the entire evening of the third desperate to do so – but just could not face the idea of waking up on my birthday post-binge.
Sometimes in the moment the consequences are not enough to keep me from doing it, but this time, luckily, it was.
Eight days binge free.
Saturday, 28 April 2012
Modern Love
"I love the Styles section!" he said, after I'd warily confessed the names of the publications for which I write. (The MD/PhD had winced when I'd mentioned Styles -- he said he'd dated a fashionista, and apparently it did not go well.)
"I'm dazzled by the presence of The Times in my life, however sparingly. For secular Jews it's like manna. If only my grandmother were here to hear me brag I'm flirting with a real, actual Times reporter."
Is telling me about your mediocre online dates – and how women are jealous of your semi-retired-at-age-37 lifestyle – what passes for flirting in the 21st century? I always knew I was born in the wrong century.
If this is an emergency, hang up and check your Facebook messages...
"I'm dazzled by the presence of The Times in my life, however sparingly. For secular Jews it's like manna. If only my grandmother were here to hear me brag I'm flirting with a real, actual Times reporter."
Is telling me about your mediocre online dates – and how women are jealous of your semi-retired-at-age-37 lifestyle – what passes for flirting in the 21st century? I always knew I was born in the wrong century.
If this is an emergency, hang up and check your Facebook messages...
Friday, 27 April 2012
Another Low
Just when I think I've hit the bottom, I just keep on digging.
A week ago, a friend who has a history of bingeing called me. I was in mid-binge after a haircut (seriously, sometimes that is a trigger for me – all dressed up, so to speak, and nowhere to go) and a lame-ish event. It was approximately my fourth binge in two weeks, and I was on my fourth or fifth stop of the evening, wandering around the bodega thinking: "I cannot live this way anymore." And yet there I was – having eaten cake and pie and heaven knows what else -- buying a bloody ice cream sandwich.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I saw her name flash up, and chose not to answer it. Then I thought: I should call her back.
"How are you?" she said.
"I'm eating an ice cream sandwich," I blurted out, starting to cry halfway through the sentence.
She talked to me all the way home, past the bodega on Bleecker Street, past the Magnolia Bakery, past countless other stops I might have made – or made excuses to get off the phone and make.
I thought I had turned a corner. I woke up the next morning feeling crummy, but not as crummy as I would have felt if I'd carried on bingeing. I got through the Friday. But then I started bingeing before a dinner party Saturday night and carried on bingeing afterwards. (At the party: An adorable MD/PhD who lives in San Francisco and throws words around like "bioinformatics." Swoon. I know, I'm weird.) Sunday I woke up and could not face figuring out what to wear – because so many things were already so tight.
I binged Sunday. One long, continuous binge that only stopped, mercifully, because I had promised to take two editor friends to spin class Monday at 8 am, and I knew there would be a point where I absolutely could not do it. (Sometimes – hell, often -- this does not stop me but in this case luckily it did.)
I have not binged for four days, but it has been a struggle. I've been unable to exercise due to recovery from being sick – and from having woken up yesterday inexplicably unable to put weight on my left heel. (Really hoping this is not plantar fasciitis.) Being sick makes everything feel a bit gray anyway, and for the first time in several months, I've been struggling with getting work.
Last night I went with a friend to a trivia night in Brooklyn and ate a huge, greasy sandwich. En route to the bar I had eyed places I could binge, and I thought about them for the first half hour in the bar, and again at a break between rounds. It seemed a dead cert that I was minutes away from stuffing my face.
Somehow – I am honestly not sure how – I did not. Maybe it was the dread of having _really_ nothing to wear at a lunch and another event to which I knew I had to go today. Maybe it was something in the ether – or the sauvignon blanc (ha). Nor did I binge today, although I so wanted to after lunch.
Now it's nearly 2 am, and here I am, tappity-tap-tapping away and thinking I should go to bed because being tired is one surefire way to make it easier to binge. Will I ever get to 30 days again? I can't think that far ahead. One day at a time…
A week ago, a friend who has a history of bingeing called me. I was in mid-binge after a haircut (seriously, sometimes that is a trigger for me – all dressed up, so to speak, and nowhere to go) and a lame-ish event. It was approximately my fourth binge in two weeks, and I was on my fourth or fifth stop of the evening, wandering around the bodega thinking: "I cannot live this way anymore." And yet there I was – having eaten cake and pie and heaven knows what else -- buying a bloody ice cream sandwich.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I saw her name flash up, and chose not to answer it. Then I thought: I should call her back.
"How are you?" she said.
"I'm eating an ice cream sandwich," I blurted out, starting to cry halfway through the sentence.
She talked to me all the way home, past the bodega on Bleecker Street, past the Magnolia Bakery, past countless other stops I might have made – or made excuses to get off the phone and make.
I thought I had turned a corner. I woke up the next morning feeling crummy, but not as crummy as I would have felt if I'd carried on bingeing. I got through the Friday. But then I started bingeing before a dinner party Saturday night and carried on bingeing afterwards. (At the party: An adorable MD/PhD who lives in San Francisco and throws words around like "bioinformatics." Swoon. I know, I'm weird.) Sunday I woke up and could not face figuring out what to wear – because so many things were already so tight.
I binged Sunday. One long, continuous binge that only stopped, mercifully, because I had promised to take two editor friends to spin class Monday at 8 am, and I knew there would be a point where I absolutely could not do it. (Sometimes – hell, often -- this does not stop me but in this case luckily it did.)
I have not binged for four days, but it has been a struggle. I've been unable to exercise due to recovery from being sick – and from having woken up yesterday inexplicably unable to put weight on my left heel. (Really hoping this is not plantar fasciitis.) Being sick makes everything feel a bit gray anyway, and for the first time in several months, I've been struggling with getting work.
Last night I went with a friend to a trivia night in Brooklyn and ate a huge, greasy sandwich. En route to the bar I had eyed places I could binge, and I thought about them for the first half hour in the bar, and again at a break between rounds. It seemed a dead cert that I was minutes away from stuffing my face.
Somehow – I am honestly not sure how – I did not. Maybe it was the dread of having _really_ nothing to wear at a lunch and another event to which I knew I had to go today. Maybe it was something in the ether – or the sauvignon blanc (ha). Nor did I binge today, although I so wanted to after lunch.
Now it's nearly 2 am, and here I am, tappity-tap-tapping away and thinking I should go to bed because being tired is one surefire way to make it easier to binge. Will I ever get to 30 days again? I can't think that far ahead. One day at a time…
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
No Day But Today
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.
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.
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