For three weeks now, any e-mail I send to any company distribution list receives at least a few replies that begin: “I’ve been meaning to write – how are you?”
And so I repeat for the eleventeenth time: I’m fine, thank you. I say something nice – which also has the virtue of being true – that there aren’t many jobs that send you to Afghanistan one minute and St Tropez the next, and that I had a good run. I say perhaps I’ll come unglued when I get my official leaving date.
And what follows on that are emails that seem wholly capable of making me come unglued on the spot. The senders – often editors in New York -- write such over-the-top nice things about me and my abilities and my reputation that I’m starting to feel like I died. (Maybe death would explain the bizarre detached feeling with which I have gotten through the past few weeks.)
Cynically, I can't help thinking -- at least for a second -- that words are cheap and that these people need to assuage their guilt at the fact that they still have jobs. Jobs, I might add, that are much more highly paid and a whole lot less time-intensive and stressful than mine (few of these people ever answer email on weekends, let alone do actual work). I picture them running around like Oskar Schindler (I know this is a tasteless analogy, but still I can't help picturing Liam Neeson) -- after it's too late, bemoaning the little things he could have and should have done.
But then the moment of cynicism passes and I forward the emails to my personal account to read over the next few months.
I think I’m going to need them.
* * *
Last night I had tea (peppermint, not cream) with a frenemy I haven’t seen for months. She is a very successful freelance writer and TV personality with whom I will very likely be in direct competition soon (though not for TV gigs – so not me.)
She was a cheerleader in a former life – dyed blonde, big chest, and completely over the top in her enthusiasm for everything. We discussed a weight loss story she’s writing and of course the topic turned to weights – as in, actual numbers on the scale, and how she won’t be telling the truth in the article.
But she told me the truth (I think). I am two inches taller than her and weigh a good 10 to 15 pounds less than her.
I wasn’t gleeful – just shocked. Honestly. I'm not sure I've ever weighed less than anyone -- well, any thin person -- in my life.
Friday, 12 December 2008
Thursday, 11 December 2008
Denial (De Nile?) is a River in Egypt
Is it wrong to debate using my $600 economic stimulus check from the US government for boots? Answers on a postcard. I'll be at http://www.raejones.co.uk/collection.html?img=gallery/img_19.jpg
Is it wrong to debate using my $600 economic stimulus check from the US government for boots when I won’t have a job in a few weeks? (Is your answer still the same?)
I keep waiting for it to hit me, this jobless thing, but it hasn’t. All that has changed in my life so far is that I do less work – a lot less work – and I occasionally freak out about not having any money. And then I do lunatic things like decide to walk from Islington to Each Finchley – five miles – to avoid the £3 tube fare (and to burn off some Thanksgiving dinner), and then spend 300 euros on a 19th century rose gold-and-pearl bracelet I found at a Paris market (but I only went to Paris because I had a free Eurostar ticket. See? It all works out!)
* * *
Before the choice to keep my job was taken from me, I’d see the Evening Standard headlines about 2 million jobless and wonder if I was crazy to think about leaving my nice, safe employment. Now I constantly have two images in my head: one is where I’m being shoved off something (a cliff?) and I land, D-Day-invasion-style – on my stomach, crawling. In the second image, I’m trying to get off an overcrowded subway train, but the platform also is overcrowded, so I’m stuck. Paging Dr. Freud.
I guess I am stuck, in a way, no thanks to the British redundancy process, which drags on. I still don’t have a final leave date and I’ve only just gotten an answer on when my notice period starts (but not, of course, whether I’ll have to work in the office during it.) The British redundancy process is a lot like life in England itself – on the surface it’s lovely and polite and no one wants to be the one to tell you things you don’t want to hear. Oh, and there’s lots of alcohol. But because of that it’s also inefficient, frustrating, and bureaucratic. And in our office – because they are replacing all of us with one home-based correspondent (a job I think I’d need a lobotomy to consider applying for) – it has turned into Lord of the Flies. Every man for himself. You know the world has gone a bit topsy-turvy when you walk into your boss’s office and he quickly flicks up a computer game screen to hide the fact that he is doing actual work because he doesn’t want you to know he is desperate for said job.
Ahem.
I just want someone to give me a leaving date already. Would that be so much to ask?
* * *
This week I went to see my binge eating counselor and he told me I looked like I was still losing weight.
I’m not. I was at 150 for about 3 seconds, and now seem to be hanging out around 153-154, although that was before I went and consumed mince pies, brandy butter and brandy cream last night. And it’s only Dec. 10. Be afraid, be very afraid. I am.
Is it wrong to debate using my $600 economic stimulus check from the US government for boots when I won’t have a job in a few weeks? (Is your answer still the same?)
I keep waiting for it to hit me, this jobless thing, but it hasn’t. All that has changed in my life so far is that I do less work – a lot less work – and I occasionally freak out about not having any money. And then I do lunatic things like decide to walk from Islington to Each Finchley – five miles – to avoid the £3 tube fare (and to burn off some Thanksgiving dinner), and then spend 300 euros on a 19th century rose gold-and-pearl bracelet I found at a Paris market (but I only went to Paris because I had a free Eurostar ticket. See? It all works out!)
* * *
Before the choice to keep my job was taken from me, I’d see the Evening Standard headlines about 2 million jobless and wonder if I was crazy to think about leaving my nice, safe employment. Now I constantly have two images in my head: one is where I’m being shoved off something (a cliff?) and I land, D-Day-invasion-style – on my stomach, crawling. In the second image, I’m trying to get off an overcrowded subway train, but the platform also is overcrowded, so I’m stuck. Paging Dr. Freud.
I guess I am stuck, in a way, no thanks to the British redundancy process, which drags on. I still don’t have a final leave date and I’ve only just gotten an answer on when my notice period starts (but not, of course, whether I’ll have to work in the office during it.) The British redundancy process is a lot like life in England itself – on the surface it’s lovely and polite and no one wants to be the one to tell you things you don’t want to hear. Oh, and there’s lots of alcohol. But because of that it’s also inefficient, frustrating, and bureaucratic. And in our office – because they are replacing all of us with one home-based correspondent (a job I think I’d need a lobotomy to consider applying for) – it has turned into Lord of the Flies. Every man for himself. You know the world has gone a bit topsy-turvy when you walk into your boss’s office and he quickly flicks up a computer game screen to hide the fact that he is doing actual work because he doesn’t want you to know he is desperate for said job.
Ahem.
I just want someone to give me a leaving date already. Would that be so much to ask?
* * *
This week I went to see my binge eating counselor and he told me I looked like I was still losing weight.
I’m not. I was at 150 for about 3 seconds, and now seem to be hanging out around 153-154, although that was before I went and consumed mince pies, brandy butter and brandy cream last night. And it’s only Dec. 10. Be afraid, be very afraid. I am.
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
The Next Right Thing
“You seem so OK with this, Beth,” a soon-to-be-former-colleague said to me yesterday on the phone.
I said something chirpy about how all the resisting in the world wasn’t going to make the company say, “You know what – you’re right. We messed up. We really desperately need you all.” I said that the sooner I got in with things, the better.
And I think I mean it.
Meanwhile, the atmosphere here is midway between a party and a wake (although isn’t a wake midway between a party and a funeral? I guess that’s what I mean). Colleagues are constantly popping out for a glass of wine – at 3 in the afternoon. We make jokes about what might happen to various celebrities in the next few weeks, and how it is totally not our problem. I am cheerily announcing to colleagues that I’ve suddenly started wearing my best work clothes and highest heels because pretty soon I’m going to be working in my pajamas. (I’ve always joked that I wanted to be one of those little old ladies who went to the grocery store in a tiara. But do you think I’ll become a thirtysomething who wears her red carpet gowns to the corner shop because I’ve got nowhere else to go?)
I know my life is about to change drastically, and I can see it so many little things. Designer sample sales? Haven’t got money and don’t need any more clothes. (Though I’m slightly tempted because I probably won’t get invited ever again.) Morning tube crush? Not any more. Pilates classes? Hmmm, going to have to ration them out... This morning I eyed the £1 bottles of cherry diet Coke I buy – usually in twos and threes – and thought yet again that it’s a habit I really ought to give up, for financial if not health reasons. And on Sunday, a friend and I debated meeting up but decided it was absolutely impossible to do so without spending money (she gets paid this week). Who wants to look in shops or markets when you can’t buy anything, and even if we get a tea we have to factor in the travel costs from our respective homes. (I didn’t point out that pretty soon I won’t be happy to gab on and on on my mobile because I – as opposed to my company – will be paying the bill.)
These are just small things, I know – but they’re a sign of what’s to come.
I can make loads of jokes, but the truth is, I’m scared.
Years ago, when my life was in a state of chaos and upheaval of a degree only slightly less than this, I cried to a very wise friend: “What am I going to do?”
“Do the next right thing,” she replied.
I love that answer. Sometimes the next right thing is just making sure I have a proper lunch, or that I've gotten enough sleep. Sometimes it's tackling a banking problem that's been bugging me for the past five months. Other times it is actual work. Whatever it is, it is progress of some kind, on some front.
Do the next right thing? I'm trying. I'm trying.
* * *
Weight this morning: 152 1/2
I said something chirpy about how all the resisting in the world wasn’t going to make the company say, “You know what – you’re right. We messed up. We really desperately need you all.” I said that the sooner I got in with things, the better.
And I think I mean it.
Meanwhile, the atmosphere here is midway between a party and a wake (although isn’t a wake midway between a party and a funeral? I guess that’s what I mean). Colleagues are constantly popping out for a glass of wine – at 3 in the afternoon. We make jokes about what might happen to various celebrities in the next few weeks, and how it is totally not our problem. I am cheerily announcing to colleagues that I’ve suddenly started wearing my best work clothes and highest heels because pretty soon I’m going to be working in my pajamas. (I’ve always joked that I wanted to be one of those little old ladies who went to the grocery store in a tiara. But do you think I’ll become a thirtysomething who wears her red carpet gowns to the corner shop because I’ve got nowhere else to go?)
I know my life is about to change drastically, and I can see it so many little things. Designer sample sales? Haven’t got money and don’t need any more clothes. (Though I’m slightly tempted because I probably won’t get invited ever again.) Morning tube crush? Not any more. Pilates classes? Hmmm, going to have to ration them out... This morning I eyed the £1 bottles of cherry diet Coke I buy – usually in twos and threes – and thought yet again that it’s a habit I really ought to give up, for financial if not health reasons. And on Sunday, a friend and I debated meeting up but decided it was absolutely impossible to do so without spending money (she gets paid this week). Who wants to look in shops or markets when you can’t buy anything, and even if we get a tea we have to factor in the travel costs from our respective homes. (I didn’t point out that pretty soon I won’t be happy to gab on and on on my mobile because I – as opposed to my company – will be paying the bill.)
These are just small things, I know – but they’re a sign of what’s to come.
I can make loads of jokes, but the truth is, I’m scared.
Years ago, when my life was in a state of chaos and upheaval of a degree only slightly less than this, I cried to a very wise friend: “What am I going to do?”
“Do the next right thing,” she replied.
I love that answer. Sometimes the next right thing is just making sure I have a proper lunch, or that I've gotten enough sleep. Sometimes it's tackling a banking problem that's been bugging me for the past five months. Other times it is actual work. Whatever it is, it is progress of some kind, on some front.
Do the next right thing? I'm trying. I'm trying.
* * *
Weight this morning: 152 1/2
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
Terms: Indefinite
So I got my indefinite leave to remain, but not without a six-hour struggle. A friend pointed out that it was lucky I hadn't hired a lawyer, because no lawyer would have cared about my case as much as I did. Basically, I hit them with as much paper (evidence) as I possibly could, and I used the journalist tactic of not taking no for an answer.
Why was I so desperate? Partly the fear of losing £950 (you have to pay up whether your application is accepted or rejected), but mostly the fear of losing my job -- and with it my right to remain in the UK, not to mention my eligibility for residency. For the past year or two, I've hung on to a job I haven't loved partly because I needed five years continuous on a work permit to qualify for residency.
After I escaped Croydon with the residence permit safely in my passport, I went home and cracked open the Krug and stared repeatedly at the sticker. Terms: Indefinite. I can work for whoever I want, and stay here as long as I want (unless I commit a crime, and I don't think they mean crime of fashion...)
I have never been very organized, and I blame this partly on binge eating. Everything is either a very immediate need -- so desperate, so overwhelming -- or just too much bother (especially when you're stuffed or just self-loathing). Which is why I can't help congratulating myself especially heartily for having been organized on the indefinite leave to remain front. I've had a lot going on, and yet I still was organized enough to take the test, book the appointment, and collect the necessary documents without a last-minute scramble. Yes, loads of people manage to do this sort of thing without feeling the need to congratulate themselves for it, but for me, when life seems overwhelming (which it does at the moment), I want to burrow into a mountain of pasta and hide, not organize bank statements and dig out my mother's death certificate to explain a 20-day absence from the UK right after my work permit was granted.
It's also a good thing I was so organized because today my company announced what I have been predicting for several months: That they are closing their foreign office and we are all losing our jobs. If I first had to call Croydon to set up an appointment now, I'd be out of luck -- I'd have to wait until January, by which point I'd be out of a job and ineligible.
I've been planning to leave for months, and now it looks like I'm going to be paid to do so (redundancy pay). But I still teared up a bit when I heard the news today. I guess it's one thing to think something is going to happen, and another to find out it certainly is.
And as I said to my grandmother, although I've been increasingly miserable in the job -- and feeling quite taken advantage of -- doing the residency application (which requires you to list all absences in and out of the country) reminded me of just how great things were at one point. What other job would have sent me -- in the same year -- to Afghanistan and then to a rapper's yacht in St. Tropez? I guess the danger is that I get so nostalgic and grateful for the experiences I had that I'm totally unable to negotiate...
In the middle of all this, I hit 100 days binge free -- and 80 pounds lost (weight this morning was 153). I expect this month -- and probably the few after it -- to be difficult, but I'm hoping to remember that eating doesn't solve any problem besides actual physical hunger.
Why was I so desperate? Partly the fear of losing £950 (you have to pay up whether your application is accepted or rejected), but mostly the fear of losing my job -- and with it my right to remain in the UK, not to mention my eligibility for residency. For the past year or two, I've hung on to a job I haven't loved partly because I needed five years continuous on a work permit to qualify for residency.
After I escaped Croydon with the residence permit safely in my passport, I went home and cracked open the Krug and stared repeatedly at the sticker. Terms: Indefinite. I can work for whoever I want, and stay here as long as I want (unless I commit a crime, and I don't think they mean crime of fashion...)
I have never been very organized, and I blame this partly on binge eating. Everything is either a very immediate need -- so desperate, so overwhelming -- or just too much bother (especially when you're stuffed or just self-loathing). Which is why I can't help congratulating myself especially heartily for having been organized on the indefinite leave to remain front. I've had a lot going on, and yet I still was organized enough to take the test, book the appointment, and collect the necessary documents without a last-minute scramble. Yes, loads of people manage to do this sort of thing without feeling the need to congratulate themselves for it, but for me, when life seems overwhelming (which it does at the moment), I want to burrow into a mountain of pasta and hide, not organize bank statements and dig out my mother's death certificate to explain a 20-day absence from the UK right after my work permit was granted.
It's also a good thing I was so organized because today my company announced what I have been predicting for several months: That they are closing their foreign office and we are all losing our jobs. If I first had to call Croydon to set up an appointment now, I'd be out of luck -- I'd have to wait until January, by which point I'd be out of a job and ineligible.
I've been planning to leave for months, and now it looks like I'm going to be paid to do so (redundancy pay). But I still teared up a bit when I heard the news today. I guess it's one thing to think something is going to happen, and another to find out it certainly is.
And as I said to my grandmother, although I've been increasingly miserable in the job -- and feeling quite taken advantage of -- doing the residency application (which requires you to list all absences in and out of the country) reminded me of just how great things were at one point. What other job would have sent me -- in the same year -- to Afghanistan and then to a rapper's yacht in St. Tropez? I guess the danger is that I get so nostalgic and grateful for the experiences I had that I'm totally unable to negotiate...
In the middle of all this, I hit 100 days binge free -- and 80 pounds lost (weight this morning was 153). I expect this month -- and probably the few after it -- to be difficult, but I'm hoping to remember that eating doesn't solve any problem besides actual physical hunger.
Monday, 10 November 2008
The Last Vestiges
Just a quick one, as I am freaking out about my appointment in Croydon tomorrow for indefinite leave to remain in the UK (aka residency) – and about the impending layoffs at my company. I’ll freak out less about the latter if I am awarded the former, let’s put it that way.
Yesterday morning after breakfast I volunteered to go to the corner shop for a few items we needed. We were going out later and could have gotten them together, but for some reason it seemed really important to me that I go out – alone – and purchase them.
When I left the house I felt this great rush of joy and anticipation. I walked down the street wondering why, and then it hit me: It’s a vestigial bingeing behavior. It’s still absolutely automatic for me to grab any legitimate excuse to leave the house and go off on my own to a shop.
I felt a strange rush of emotion at this realization – part sadness, part pride, part relief. At the shop I bought the items we needed – plus a single 35g bar of Green & Black’s for me for later. I still haven’t eaten it yet.
Yesterday morning after breakfast I volunteered to go to the corner shop for a few items we needed. We were going out later and could have gotten them together, but for some reason it seemed really important to me that I go out – alone – and purchase them.
When I left the house I felt this great rush of joy and anticipation. I walked down the street wondering why, and then it hit me: It’s a vestigial bingeing behavior. It’s still absolutely automatic for me to grab any legitimate excuse to leave the house and go off on my own to a shop.
I felt a strange rush of emotion at this realization – part sadness, part pride, part relief. At the shop I bought the items we needed – plus a single 35g bar of Green & Black’s for me for later. I still haven’t eaten it yet.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Gimme Gimme Gimme
Earlier this week I attended some fashion press days, which are like attending one excruciatingly boring cocktail party after another without even the promise of a cute boy (or a friend you haven’t seen in a while) eventually turning up. You check out the samples of the brand’s new line (in this case, spring/summer ’09), and make polite conversation about its inspiration, detailing, or anything else you can think of that conveys how totally omigod totally fabulous (did you hear me? Fabulous!) you think it is. talk vaguely about how you really must meet said PR for lunch one of these days. Oh yes, definitely. (How about the fourth of Never, about 6 pm?)
And then, if you’re lucky, you get a goodie bag for your efforts. (More often than not, the goodie bag is nothing to write home about – I’ve deliberately left mine on the Tube before – but sometimes it’s nice, like the summer cashmere tank top I once got from Pringle. Never mind that the moths got to it before I did…)
Even down nearly 80 pounds, I still feel hugely uncomfortable around PRs and fashion journalists. I feel like a fraud. I feel like they’re looking at me and thinking: What is this fat girl doing writing about fashion? (Much like making a fat joke before anyone else can make one first, I feel the need to insert at the earliest possible opportunity that I write about fashion, but it’s not prescriptive…) I also feel like the PRs are thinking: There is no way she will fit into any of this.
So imagine my delight when a PR sized me up and checked tags on the goodie bags. When I got outside (it’s poor form to check out your loot until you’re safely out of view) I checked the tag myself: size small!
My mind being what it is, I promptly managed to dismiss this as: Oh, the sizes were probably small, XS, XXS, and XXXS. (I know, I know…)
But then at the next shop I got the PR full-body size-up and the checking for the proper bag. And when I got outside, I checked the tag: size small.
* * *
Today at lunch I found myself unreasonably excited by the Godzilla-sized potatoes. For background, I should explain that there are days where I have specifically chosen not to have my baked potato/cottage cheese/apple (a staple lunch for me – though sometimes I add a hardboiled egg or two) because the potatoes were just too tiny, and I cannot be bothered to figure out what would be an appropriate addition to round out the meal.
Actually, I shouldn’t say I can’t be bothered. I should say I am still too scared. I don’t do well with too much choice, and to walk around the cafeteria weighing and measuring and calculating in my mind – well, it usually ends up nowhere good. (I’m slowly branching out, but the key word is slowly. I like foods I feel safe eating, and I do enough restaurant eating where I have to weigh and measure and figure that I figure I’m justified in having some “safe” meals when I can.)
But anyway – the potatoes today. Huge. I’m talking the Potato That Ate Manhattan. So big I’m sure they would elicit a comment if someone else saw me eating one – and so big I’d quite possibly be embarrassed to be caught eating one. Definitely the sort that nearly 80 pounds ago, I would have eaten awfully quickly lest I be caught.
I took a huge potato (it was in the front – I didn’t even have to hunt for it) and thought about how ridiculously, unreasonably happy I was about its size – about the thought of a lot of food and, quite possibly, the thought of feeling very, very full. And how happy I was about what seemed like a legitimate cheat – hey, my lunch is supposed to be a potato, but nobody specified the size.
And then I thought: Who am I cheating? (Yes, really.) And I thought about the chain of thoughts a hugely oversize potato would set off in my head.
When I got back to my office, I cut off a small chunk of the damned potato and threw it in the bin.
And then, if you’re lucky, you get a goodie bag for your efforts. (More often than not, the goodie bag is nothing to write home about – I’ve deliberately left mine on the Tube before – but sometimes it’s nice, like the summer cashmere tank top I once got from Pringle. Never mind that the moths got to it before I did…)
Even down nearly 80 pounds, I still feel hugely uncomfortable around PRs and fashion journalists. I feel like a fraud. I feel like they’re looking at me and thinking: What is this fat girl doing writing about fashion? (Much like making a fat joke before anyone else can make one first, I feel the need to insert at the earliest possible opportunity that I write about fashion, but it’s not prescriptive…) I also feel like the PRs are thinking: There is no way she will fit into any of this.
So imagine my delight when a PR sized me up and checked tags on the goodie bags. When I got outside (it’s poor form to check out your loot until you’re safely out of view) I checked the tag myself: size small!
My mind being what it is, I promptly managed to dismiss this as: Oh, the sizes were probably small, XS, XXS, and XXXS. (I know, I know…)
But then at the next shop I got the PR full-body size-up and the checking for the proper bag. And when I got outside, I checked the tag: size small.
* * *
Today at lunch I found myself unreasonably excited by the Godzilla-sized potatoes. For background, I should explain that there are days where I have specifically chosen not to have my baked potato/cottage cheese/apple (a staple lunch for me – though sometimes I add a hardboiled egg or two) because the potatoes were just too tiny, and I cannot be bothered to figure out what would be an appropriate addition to round out the meal.
Actually, I shouldn’t say I can’t be bothered. I should say I am still too scared. I don’t do well with too much choice, and to walk around the cafeteria weighing and measuring and calculating in my mind – well, it usually ends up nowhere good. (I’m slowly branching out, but the key word is slowly. I like foods I feel safe eating, and I do enough restaurant eating where I have to weigh and measure and figure that I figure I’m justified in having some “safe” meals when I can.)
But anyway – the potatoes today. Huge. I’m talking the Potato That Ate Manhattan. So big I’m sure they would elicit a comment if someone else saw me eating one – and so big I’d quite possibly be embarrassed to be caught eating one. Definitely the sort that nearly 80 pounds ago, I would have eaten awfully quickly lest I be caught.
I took a huge potato (it was in the front – I didn’t even have to hunt for it) and thought about how ridiculously, unreasonably happy I was about its size – about the thought of a lot of food and, quite possibly, the thought of feeling very, very full. And how happy I was about what seemed like a legitimate cheat – hey, my lunch is supposed to be a potato, but nobody specified the size.
And then I thought: Who am I cheating? (Yes, really.) And I thought about the chain of thoughts a hugely oversize potato would set off in my head.
When I got back to my office, I cut off a small chunk of the damned potato and threw it in the bin.
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been
I’ve been a little lax on the cardio front lately, and today seemed destined to be one of those days where no matter how much I push at various commitments in an effort to squeeze out some time, nothing gives an inch.
And then I had a flash of inspiration: Why not run to the dentist’s office and back?
It was slightly embarrassing turning up at the dentist’s a bit sweaty, but hey, loads of people cycle in London, and at least I’d brushed my teeth. Total cardio notched up: A half hour. And not only did I have no cavities (I have the world’s worst teeth), the dentist said to me approvingly: “You don’t eat much sugar, do you?”
Um, except for my twice daily (trying to cut it down to once daily) chocolate snacks. But hey, I guess the brushing and flossing is paying off.
* * *
Yesterday – for the first time -- I wore a skirt that doesn’t fit if I gain so much as a quarter of a pound. Yes, it is a frivolous purchase, but would you pass up a £1,500 skirt (no, special magic powers are not included at that price) you found for £75 at a sample sale? I thought not.
The World’s Most Hideously Overpriced Skirt is dove gray, ruched and knee length – and totally impossible to walk in. I’m not kidding. I had to use the elevator at work to go three floors up, something I never do, lest I rip the skirt trying to get a foot up on the stair. And as I stood there in the elevator I couldn’t help thinking how ironic it was that I have to be at my thinnest to wear the damn skirt, yet its design prevents me from doing anything to maintain that weight.
And when I checked myself out in the elevator’s mirror (because let’s face it, everyone does) I decided the skirt’s ruching actually made me look fat.
* * *
It's been nearly two years since I started losing weight (well, this time around), and still I can't stop noting all the ways life has changed.
Here's another one, courtesy of Tuesday night’s Kaiser Chiefs show: I was jumping up and down (grateful that I was light enough -- and fit enough -- to do this without breaking into a major sweat) and landed squarely on some poor guy's foot. Instead of groaning, saying something nasty and/or rolling his eyes at his (male) friend, he smiled at me. (I was so flustered and surprised I nearly forgot to apologize.)
I feel like I'm getting boring in all of my gratitude. I wouldn't say I used to radiate negativity, but I'm definitely Ms Glass is Half Empty, and I've been known to be awfully critical of myself (not to mention other people). It's a strange, strange feeling to be so pleased with myself and the changes I've made -- and yet at the same time feel like (actually, be quite sure) they can be undone in a weekend.
It's been more than 70 days since I've binged now, and day by day I feel stronger. Except -- paradoxically -- on days when I don't. There are still days when all I want to do is toast half a loaf of bread and cover it in butter and eat it, one slice after another, without stopping. (And I never even used to eat toast, weirdly enough.) There are still days where I feel like all I do is wait until my next chance to eat again.
I wish I could take comfort on those days in knowing that the wheel will turn – that the feeling of needing to eat, to stuff myself will pass. That it will fade – actually will just suddenly turn -- into happy, at-peace days where I think: I can live like this. I can live with eating the way I currently do. On days when I’m at peace with food, I can’t imagine why I would want to live any other way. Life may not be worth living without my yellow cake with icing and my macaroni and cheese and my biscuits (the American variety) and my butter and my food in general, but at the same time, nor is any food in the world worth setting off the downward spiral of “I need more of that in huge quantities rightthisverysecond” or “I ate way too much” or “I haven’t heard a single thing anyone’s said all evening because all I can think is ‘how can I sneak more?’” But where is the balance between the two?
And then I had a flash of inspiration: Why not run to the dentist’s office and back?
It was slightly embarrassing turning up at the dentist’s a bit sweaty, but hey, loads of people cycle in London, and at least I’d brushed my teeth. Total cardio notched up: A half hour. And not only did I have no cavities (I have the world’s worst teeth), the dentist said to me approvingly: “You don’t eat much sugar, do you?”
Um, except for my twice daily (trying to cut it down to once daily) chocolate snacks. But hey, I guess the brushing and flossing is paying off.
* * *
Yesterday – for the first time -- I wore a skirt that doesn’t fit if I gain so much as a quarter of a pound. Yes, it is a frivolous purchase, but would you pass up a £1,500 skirt (no, special magic powers are not included at that price) you found for £75 at a sample sale? I thought not.
The World’s Most Hideously Overpriced Skirt is dove gray, ruched and knee length – and totally impossible to walk in. I’m not kidding. I had to use the elevator at work to go three floors up, something I never do, lest I rip the skirt trying to get a foot up on the stair. And as I stood there in the elevator I couldn’t help thinking how ironic it was that I have to be at my thinnest to wear the damn skirt, yet its design prevents me from doing anything to maintain that weight.
And when I checked myself out in the elevator’s mirror (because let’s face it, everyone does) I decided the skirt’s ruching actually made me look fat.
* * *
It's been nearly two years since I started losing weight (well, this time around), and still I can't stop noting all the ways life has changed.
Here's another one, courtesy of Tuesday night’s Kaiser Chiefs show: I was jumping up and down (grateful that I was light enough -- and fit enough -- to do this without breaking into a major sweat) and landed squarely on some poor guy's foot. Instead of groaning, saying something nasty and/or rolling his eyes at his (male) friend, he smiled at me. (I was so flustered and surprised I nearly forgot to apologize.)
I feel like I'm getting boring in all of my gratitude. I wouldn't say I used to radiate negativity, but I'm definitely Ms Glass is Half Empty, and I've been known to be awfully critical of myself (not to mention other people). It's a strange, strange feeling to be so pleased with myself and the changes I've made -- and yet at the same time feel like (actually, be quite sure) they can be undone in a weekend.
It's been more than 70 days since I've binged now, and day by day I feel stronger. Except -- paradoxically -- on days when I don't. There are still days when all I want to do is toast half a loaf of bread and cover it in butter and eat it, one slice after another, without stopping. (And I never even used to eat toast, weirdly enough.) There are still days where I feel like all I do is wait until my next chance to eat again.
I wish I could take comfort on those days in knowing that the wheel will turn – that the feeling of needing to eat, to stuff myself will pass. That it will fade – actually will just suddenly turn -- into happy, at-peace days where I think: I can live like this. I can live with eating the way I currently do. On days when I’m at peace with food, I can’t imagine why I would want to live any other way. Life may not be worth living without my yellow cake with icing and my macaroni and cheese and my biscuits (the American variety) and my butter and my food in general, but at the same time, nor is any food in the world worth setting off the downward spiral of “I need more of that in huge quantities rightthisverysecond” or “I ate way too much” or “I haven’t heard a single thing anyone’s said all evening because all I can think is ‘how can I sneak more?’” But where is the balance between the two?
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