I loathe text messaging, think I am a better person when I spend less time on social media, love ink-on-paper letters, and bemoan that few people get dressed up to go places such as the theatre or the ballet. I often joke that I was born in the wrong century. Is that why I find it so unbelievably tough to be in the present?
I am awash in regrets and resentments (living in the past) – and I am the world's biggest daydreamer (living in the future). And if I am not plotting a binge or bingeing to escape the present, my mind, I realized, is very busy doing anything but being here and now. I am making to-do lists, or I am coming up with elaborate plans to reinvent myself: how I will get the binge weight off, how I will do the 100 pushups plan, how I will read more novels, how I will write fiction every morning, how I won't ever binge again. I think about how much weight I could lose or what I will wear or what someone will think when he sees me. I am so busy thinking about what I might or could or should become that I very rarely just am. It is me worrying about getting a picture of the moment for posterity – recording that I. Wuz. Here, as we used to write on the cubbies in summer camp -- instead of just being in it.
What does this have to do with bingeing, you ask? Bingeing is an escape from the present – usually when I feel trapped. But if the rest of these things also are an escape, does that mean I feel trapped in my own life? I guess I feel trapped in this cycle that there is not enough and I am not enough – this constant need to either fix myself or find someone (preferably a boyfriend) to do it for me. And when those don't work, as of course they don't, I eat.
***
Today was another tough day.
I woke up at 6 am, resentful (that word again!) that I might end up eating breakfast early. It's hot and I'm too fat again and I am waiting for all these things and Sundays are tough at the best of times and now I'm also going to have to deal with being hungry all day, I wanted to whine. (Oh, and yet again I get to feel that I have left London at the wrong time. Yes, I know Murray lost, but I cannot help feeling sad about all the British events I've missed in the past year, like an inside joke I can't get in on after the fact.)
I decided to try to hold off breakfast until 7, and so read my book – and fell asleep at 6.45 until about 8. Still I was full of pettiness all morning: I snapped at the guy at the gym who wanted photo ID to confirm I was on the guest list (problems with my membership that can't be resolved until tomorrow; who would pretend to be someone else to get into a gym, for heaven's sake?). At a meeting later in the morning, I deliberately avoided eye contact with a new-ish not-sure-she's-a-friend who was back in town from her graduate school program – I'd been feeling resentful about a few weird, rude, possibly selfish and definitely un-friend-like things she did just before she left, and that she hadn't answered any of my e-mails or texts. But she texted me during the meeting, and – I cringe admitting this -- like something out of junior high, I debated whether to leave off the exclamation point on my "welcome back" (I ended up including it).
There were other disappointments, small and, well, slightly larger. There was anger and sadness and frustration. But somehow today passed. I had lunch with friends, I read my book, but not much of the Sunday paper (or any of the three Nancy Drew mysteries I couldn't resist on a sale table I walked by). I cleaned some malware off my computer, something I've needed to do for ages. I saw a crummy movie and had dinner with the not-sure-she's-a-friend, who I'm now fairly sure is not.
And now it's nearly midnight, and I have not binged. That's day four.
Monday, 9 July 2012
Saturday, 7 July 2012
The Waiting Game
Today is one of those days where everything is just a little bit too much. Nothing is really wrong, and yet everything is. I am tired and lethargic, and when I tried to read my paper at the Starbucks (I don't have air conditioning; they do), I first couldn't concentrate because of the loud conversation next to me, and when I moved, the woman next to me seemed to be rattling the sleeve with her pastry unbelievably loudly for, like, ever. Then she decided to spray herself with sunscreen. And so on.
If I recall correctly, being irritated at the slightest provocation – and being alternately on the verge of tears and so uncomfortable in my own skin I'd like to rip it off, and sometimes all of these at once -- is a fairly standard feature of detoxing off binges, and usually happens somewhere between days four and seven, though I guess it's arrived early (today's day three). It's also when I can't decide what I need or what I want – when I think of a million things I could or should be doing, and then tell myself I need to keep it simple. And then when I do, feel resentful that I am just getting through the day instead of embracing it. (I also find myself feeling slightly guilty, thanks to the number of moms in my circle these days. Presumably if I ever have a child – not looking likely, because I don't think I want one badly enough to go on the forced march of meeting someone and hurrying it all along to get one -- I will both look back longingly at these days when I did just about nothing and rue that I didn't live it up while I could have.)
It doesn't help that I feel like I'm waiting, waiting, waiting – not something at which I ever have excelled at doing patiently. Nor am I good at giving my full attention to anything else while doing so. And I am waiting for the New York Times to run not one but two stories (both of which were turned in ages ago – makes me fear what's wrong with them), waiting to hear from editor on miserable story I turned in yesterday (is this the point where an editor will say, as I have been expecting all year, "You have failed upward until this point, and here's where it stops"), waiting to hear about a series of pitches. I am waiting to feel and look like myself again, and waiting to hear from a couple of people about plans that were not quite jelled enough to be prompting a "are we still on?" (basically, they're in the stage that is the online shopping equivalent of having it in your cart but not proceeding to payment.) And of course, as always, I am waiting for the next time I get to eat.
If I recall correctly, being irritated at the slightest provocation – and being alternately on the verge of tears and so uncomfortable in my own skin I'd like to rip it off, and sometimes all of these at once -- is a fairly standard feature of detoxing off binges, and usually happens somewhere between days four and seven, though I guess it's arrived early (today's day three). It's also when I can't decide what I need or what I want – when I think of a million things I could or should be doing, and then tell myself I need to keep it simple. And then when I do, feel resentful that I am just getting through the day instead of embracing it. (I also find myself feeling slightly guilty, thanks to the number of moms in my circle these days. Presumably if I ever have a child – not looking likely, because I don't think I want one badly enough to go on the forced march of meeting someone and hurrying it all along to get one -- I will both look back longingly at these days when I did just about nothing and rue that I didn't live it up while I could have.)
It doesn't help that I feel like I'm waiting, waiting, waiting – not something at which I ever have excelled at doing patiently. Nor am I good at giving my full attention to anything else while doing so. And I am waiting for the New York Times to run not one but two stories (both of which were turned in ages ago – makes me fear what's wrong with them), waiting to hear from editor on miserable story I turned in yesterday (is this the point where an editor will say, as I have been expecting all year, "You have failed upward until this point, and here's where it stops"), waiting to hear about a series of pitches. I am waiting to feel and look like myself again, and waiting to hear from a couple of people about plans that were not quite jelled enough to be prompting a "are we still on?" (basically, they're in the stage that is the online shopping equivalent of having it in your cart but not proceeding to payment.) And of course, as always, I am waiting for the next time I get to eat.
Up All Night
Maybe because I've been away for two weeks, maybe because I pulled a proper all-nighter (just one hour's catnap at about 11 am), maybe because everything shimmers a little in the heat, but New York tonight seemed like a movie set. Improbably bright streets full of people silhouetted against the darkness, and around every corner a glimpse of a tall, lit-up building in the distance.
It seemed unreal, which is how my life feels right now. I remember feeling this way when I landed back in New York last August after nearly six weeks abroad, except then I think it was colored by depression and despair: What am I doing here, and why? I still wonder that, but it is more that I muse about it than I chafe about it. On good days, anyway.
Today passed in a blur. One minute it was 9 pm yesterday and I was dreading the writing of the story I had due today. The more excited I am about the piece, the harder I find it to write it. I think this is because my work always falls short of what I wish it would be, but none fall farther than the ones you want to be perfect. Anyway, I wrote straight through the night, and at 10 am decided it needed massive reconstructive surgery. I'm even less happy with what I turned in than usual, but at least it's done.
I pulled the all-nighter without eating, and I muddled my way through today. I know that being tired makes me both want to eat and be less able to resist, but knowing that exhaustion is to blame doesn't stop the feeling.
Two days without a binge.
It seemed unreal, which is how my life feels right now. I remember feeling this way when I landed back in New York last August after nearly six weeks abroad, except then I think it was colored by depression and despair: What am I doing here, and why? I still wonder that, but it is more that I muse about it than I chafe about it. On good days, anyway.
Today passed in a blur. One minute it was 9 pm yesterday and I was dreading the writing of the story I had due today. The more excited I am about the piece, the harder I find it to write it. I think this is because my work always falls short of what I wish it would be, but none fall farther than the ones you want to be perfect. Anyway, I wrote straight through the night, and at 10 am decided it needed massive reconstructive surgery. I'm even less happy with what I turned in than usual, but at least it's done.
I pulled the all-nighter without eating, and I muddled my way through today. I know that being tired makes me both want to eat and be less able to resist, but knowing that exhaustion is to blame doesn't stop the feeling.
Two days without a binge.
Thursday, 5 July 2012
Back from the Bingeing Wars
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.
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.
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.
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