Acting My Age

At the doctor's office I used to fear pain, needles, and the possibility that something would be wrong, maybe even irreparably wrong.

Now I fear questions.

Since my grandmother died, I've been incapable of entering any type of medical office without crying. There was the dentist last month. And last week I went to a doctor's to test a cosmetic procedure.

"Do you have a family history of varicose veins?" the receptionist asked, scanning my form.

"I don't know," I answered. Tears pricked my eyes before I was even sure why.

Then I realized: I'll never know. There's nobody to ask.

Whoever knew that when I was lying on the bed at my grandmother's, she sitting in her chair watching TV (she loved Dancing With the Stars), me flipping through a magazine, instead I should have been asking her about varicose veins and life insurance policies and where this coral, lapis and gold brooch was from. And about a thousand million other things.

***

It's been a tough week. I binged again. I passed my six-month anniversary of living in New York – a milestone that only made me realize how miserable I've been, and how small my world is here. (How could it be otherwise? I worked Monday night until midnight, not for the first time.) I'm torn between wanting my upcoming birthday to pass unnoticed, and knowing that however I mark the day, it's probably going to hurt.

That said, I did a handful of unpleasant things today that made me feel like an adult. (It's about time, considering I'll be 36 in less than two weeks.)

I'd been going back and forth with the guy I went out with about another date – a date I did not particularly want to go on, and that could potentially lead to my usual variety of self destructive behaviour.

I didn't lie, or evade, or just disappear.

I wrote: "Sorry I've been making this unnecessarily drawn out and complicated. I had fun on Saturday; I like you and I think you're great. But I don't feel what I need to feel to move this forward."

I wished him well, clicked send, and waited for my computer to explode. It didn't.

I went out to an appointment and feared hitting refresh on my email. When I got back to my desk, I saw he responded graciously. I wondered if I'd made a mistake, but knew I hadn't.

One problem sorted in a way I feel no shame about.

Then I sorted problem two. I was supposed to go on a party weekend to New Orleans this weekend. I bought a flight in New Orleans back in December, knowing full well it was shipping time at the magazine but thinking – naively – that things might get better. Either way, I figured I'd work it out.

And I probably could have. Except that the last thing I need right now is four days of drinking and eating with Friend Bearing Chocolate and another seven people, none of whom are particularly good friends. I feared endless bingeing, stray molecule-ness, the stress of trying to get out of the office, and how awful, physically and mentally, I might feel by Sunday. Not what I need right now.

There are some people who aren't very happy with me. I'm definitely losing some money and may lose more. I'm a little disappointed and even slightly embarrassed that I can't just go party like a normal person. But although I'm not sure what I need right now, I'm pretty sure a crazy weekend filled with endless potential to self destruct on multiple levels is not it.

How Do You Like Them Apples? (Passover Edition)

[I’m not attempting to get more traffic to my SELF blog, only letting you know that what I’ve posted there in the past few weeks is rather honest and -- should anyone want it -- gives a bit more of what I've been up to. I’ve been so exhausted and short on time I’m afraid I haven’t been able to post in both places – I’ve only just barely managed to throw something together to post there.]

Some people drink wine or warm milk or take Nyquil or something stronger to get to sleep. Me? I binge.

If I look back, I can see the signs: The general malaise and inability to settle to one thing. The list of decisions to be made was getting longer, and the urgency with which I need to make them, or start making them, was getting stronger. The fear was mounting. As was the list of unpleasant tasks (and that’s not even including the decisions).

I can see very clearly – and in fact, understood while I was bingeing – that I ate too much purely to shut down. I don’t sleep much these days. I worry a lot. I wake up at 4 am and sit in the bathroom and send emails from my iphone to my work account, reminding myself of things I need to do. I think about quitting this job that I hate so very much and then I get to work and the managing editor compliments me on my shoes and I feel guilty.

Anyway.

So on Monday I went to a Passover seder at a friend’s family – a friend I know through my grandmother, and who all knew her. (My friend’s grandma, who was there, knew my grandmother for some 70 years. My friend’s father was a good friend of my uncle, my mother’s younger brother, who died suddenly when I was in college.) I felt welcome, yes, but also stray-molecule-ish – almost everyone else at the seder has been attending since birth or at least for the past 40 years. The only other non-family member in attendance besides me has been coming for at least 10 years.

I felt antsy waiting to get through the Haggadah reading to get to the eating parts. I wanted water or diet Coke to take the edge off, but it wasn’t really appropriate. I kept trying to calm myself down, but I couldn’t. Already my mind was drifting to how quickly I could get through the dinner to go off and binge.

Except I didn’t make it quite that far – I did manage to binge there. Double chocolate macaroons, mandel bread, a cross between an apple pie and a crumb cake made specially for Passover. I was invited that night to return for Seder 2, but it seemed like a bad idea. I got given some leftovers and I ate them on the subway.

I was stuffed, but still I managed to go and eat about ¾ of a corn muffin I don’t even remember the taste of. I thought about eating more, but instead I got myself home and went to sleep. For 10 hours. Without waking up in the middle of the night. If I could have gotten the uninterrupted sleep without the guilt of having eaten too much, I’d have been delighted. (Maybe I really should just try some Nyquil.)

***

On the plus side, I have pretty much been rockin’ the workouts for the past couple of weeks. I had a bit of a revelation at a spin class nearly two weeks ago, and – at least temporarily – it has done a lot for my focus and intensity. I don’t think about just logging the minutes: I think about what I can squeeze out of them. The other day I could swear I felt cartoon flames enveloping my thighs when I did an exercise. This is a good thing!

The Wayward Bus

The woman sitting across the aisle from me is eating the largest Danish I've seen in a while. The pastry doesn't look that great, but the almost luridly red cherries look bizarrely appealing.

I'm almost afraid to think about what it tastes like, lest I be overtaken by a tidal wave of wanting. Or have to rip the pastry out of her hands and run. (Not that I'd get very far – I'm on a bus!)

I'm fascinated by what people are eating on this 4.5 hour trip from New York to Washington DC. Pizza. McDonald's. Kentucky Fried Chicken. Huge Italian sandwiches (the kind from a cheap pizza place, not a good Italian deli): greasy half moons of springy white bread stuffed with ham, cheese, and all manner of cured meats. The woman next to me – tiny and slim – eats a huge bag of Planters milk chocolate and nut trail mix, then pops open a bag of pretzels and chases it with sips of something called Blood Orange Mash. The drink is exactly the same color as pee when one is incredibly dehydrated.

Is this how everyone in America eats? Or just how everyone in America eats on road trips?

The couple across from me have finished their fast food dinners and are now digging into containers of almonds and yogurt covered pretzels. They appear to be eating automatically, one handful following another until the snacks are all gone. No one (except for Danish woman) is overweight.

I'm not sure why I'm so surprised by the food choices. Even at my heaviest and worst bingeing times (which, given this past winter, I guess may not always be the same thing), I have never eaten much fast food. Mid-binge, there is usually some appeal to McDonalds chicken nuggets, milkshakes, and apple pies, but that's really it. I can't work out why these food choices shock me because I assume most people are like me: That they are so well aware of how bad fast food is that it's never really an option. Frankly, it's a stupid assumption on my part, since obviously these restaurants are all still in business. (Are the people on this bus the sort who actually learn something when someone tells them to lose five pounds they should leave the cheese off their burger? If so, I confess I'm sort of jealous of their blissful, caloric ignorance.)

But back to my fascination. Could it be that the abandon with which a lot of people on this bus appear to be eating is the same sort of eating that would (and does) cause me great shame if I do it myself? Yet they're doing it without any apparent panic or remorse. Again, I'm jealous. Oh, to overeat like a normal person.

A couple of hours after everyone around me has eaten, I am almost amused when I pull out my own dinner: A sprouted brown rice and lentil pilaf that just happens to be macrobiotic and vegan, plus an organic orange.I both like this dinner and find it satisfying and even a bit naughty (yes, there are lentils, but it is still mostly carbs) – which may be the most amusing part of all.

A Brunch Grows in Brooklyn

So brunch and I – we have an unhealthy relationship.

Brunch for me is a gateway drug to bingeing: My little pea brain can't handle the idea of a meal that is sorta kinda two meals with maybe a snack thrown in there, at a time of day I don't usually eat. How much can I eat? I wonder. What if I wake up starving? What if I'm hungry afterwards?

Nor can my brain handle the idea of so many foods I love (and that are not known for either their health or satiety factor) stuffed onto one menu. How to choose just one (or two or three)? What if I choose wrong? What if the choice – or the hunger, or anything, really – unleashes a binge, as it used to so frequently? (I remember all-day Sunday binges being a staple of my years living in Washington DC.) Add that many brunches don't accept reservations – so you can queue for hours – and, well, you can see why I am wary.

A friend in New York pointed out that brunch, at least in New York, could be any time until about 3 pm, so I am well within "normal" to suggest a lunchtime brunch.

Which is what I did on Sunday.

Originally I was supposed to meet a (gluten-free) friend from work at some vegan, gluten-free brunch spot. The menu was limited, and I figured I'd be fine. Then on Saturday I happened to be double-checking the location and saw the gluten-free waffles (the reason for choosing it in the first place) were temporarily off the menu. So I asked her to suggest another spot, and she did. I checked out the menu and feared disaster, because I wanted every single thing on it.

Sunday morning I was still torn between the biscuits and gravy and attempting something healthy, like maybe the steel cut oatmeal but without the cream.
She texted me from the restaurant: "Epic wait." Danger, danger.

"What's an epic wait?" I asked when I arrived. "Oh, 45 minutes," she said. Thought it was my normal lunchtime, I wasn't starving. I shrugged and said I was fine to wait.

And I was. We sat down and she said: "I've heard the gravy is legendary. Spicy."

The last word did it for me – no thanks. I saw plates of pancakes, beignets, French toast. Everything looked delicious. For a brief second I wanted all of it. Then I sat and calmly considered what tastes I wanted, and how I wanted to feel when I was done.

I considered ordering a few healthy sides, and then decided I'd just feel resentful. So I ordered eggs (poached) and grits, which came with a choice of vegetable or a meat. I decided I wouldn't feel at all deprived with a vegetable (sautéed kale). And

I ordered an extra side: A buttermilk biscuit.

It arrived with a huge pat of butter already on it. I was calm.

I cleaned my plate, fast but still calmly. It was all delicious.

I felt happy, but not stuffed. I told myself I could have an afternoon snack if I needed it (I didn't – it probably helped that we didn't eat until 2.30 pm). I didn't spend the rest of the afternoon debating various cuts I'd have to make, or wishing I could sit down somewhere and unbutton my jeans.

I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow it did.

"Brunch at Egg was amazing," I texted a friend. "I might be obsessed." This particular friend knows my history with brunch, and I knew would understand, with no further explanation, the significance of what seems like a fairly routine text.

She responded: "I'm glad you're enjoying New York."

Me, too. Now if only I could have as much luck with the wedding I'm attending (somewhat on the spur of the moment) this weekend...

The Past is Pending

If it were even a remote possibility, I'd wonder if I were pregnant or going through menopause – I found having my wisdom tooth out a strangely emotional experience.

There was less than 24 hours between when I learned the tooth needed to come out and the appointment I booked to have it done – in fact, there was barely more than 12. I dread anything with a potential to cause pain like nobody's business, and I want it over and done with as quickly as possible.

I was fairly zen about the whole thing the evening before. I felt briefly sorry for myself, remembering that when my sister had all four of her wisdom teeth out in high school, my mother was around to look after her (and my parents paid for it).

I remembered the only other wisdom tooth I had taken out: I was alone in London. I'm pretty sure it was in the last few months of my mother's life, and I remember I went to a screening of a very depressing movie about women in Catholic laundries in Ireland after the surgery. (I think I must have also been attempting a diet at the time, because I recall my post-surgery eats consisted almost exclusively of soft M&S Count on Us puddings.)

About an hour before I headed to the doctor's, I decided perhaps I ought to text my sister, just so someone in my family knew I was having this done.

"Wish I were there," wrote my sister. "Will think soothing thoughts."

"I'm thinking turkey meatloaf" – I actually hated all forms of turkey and baked meat-type-product as a child, but this particular creation of my mother's I liked -– "applesauce, and moose soup," I wrote. My mother was an excellent cook, but her most delicious and legendary mistake was nicknamed moose soup –- she tried to make chocolate mousse for a crowd when we were in fourth grade, and it ended up soupy. We tried freezing it to turn it into ice cream, but everyone in the family preferred it in liquid form, spooned up out of these Mexican pottery bowls my parents had.

"Awww, moose soup," my sister wrote. "I'm thinking pastina." My sister loved the tiny pasta stars, served with loads of butter. I'd eat them if someone made them, but I think I preferred grits.

"With a chaser of spinach soufflé?" Another food I haven't eaten since high school.

I had to race to make it to my appointment, and I thought of my sister and all the years of hand-holding at doctors and dentists office she has ahead of her.

As I arrived at the dentist, I felt suddenly panicked, terrified, and overcome. I sat in the chair and remembered my mother taking me for a root canal when I was in college. I remembered in elementary school her taking me to Dr. Wander, the pediatric dentist, and conferring with him out of earshot about a tooth with an abscess after he'd had a look.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I announced, when they returned chairside.

My mother exchanged meaningful glances with the dentist.

"This will only take a second, and you can go after that," he said. He pulled the tooth, and handed it to me in a tiny pink plastic treasure chest.

I had realized years ago that she suspected all along he'd pull the tooth, a baby tooth, and that she'd no doubt told him I'd be terrified. My eyes welled up just thinking about it.

"Wow, your eyes are really red," said the dentist's assistant, returning to the room. "Are you OK?"

I wasn't, but how to explain that you're 35 years old and crying for your nine-year-old self who was naive enough not to appreciate having a mother to take you to the dentist, and for that little girl who had no idea what was coming.

I shrugged. "I think I've just got myself worked up all of a sudden."

"You've got nothing to worry about," she said. "Dr. Markowitz is the oral surgeon for the Rangers." She said the last word in awed tones. I didn't know which New York sports team the Rangers were – I only know football, basketball and baseball, and they're not one of those. (I later found out they're the hockey team.) Either way, I don't find the notion that he's a surgeon for professional athletes reassuring – surely an athlete is good at withstanding pain?

She left, and the harder I tried to stop the tears, the faster they flowed. Luckily I managed to dry my eyes before anyone came back to the room, and returned to my usual coping mechanism, which is to chat away and ask loads of questions. Did you know that in dental school dentists – or at least this particular one – learned to administer Novocaine by practicing on each other? Ugh.

I sat in the chair, waiting for the numbness, memories washing over me. I remembered trips to the dentist and the orthodontist, and my mother's sympathy – she, too, hated and feared the dentist, and I'd inherited her terrible weak teeth. (My father and sister have excellent teeth.) I remembered the parade of waiting rooms I'd sat in for her over the years, starting with one for her orthopaedist, when she broke her leg when I was in middle school. The waiting room had floor to ceiling glass columns; fish tanks.

I remembered in the last years of her life knowing that she was no longer the person I knew – if, in fact, I ever really knew her – when she would walk into the dentist or the doctor completely without fear.

"Mom just marches in there like it's no big deal," my sister observed. The tumors in her brain had robbed her of any ability to express emotion (we couldn't be sure whether she felt it). When her younger brother died suddenly of a heart attack, she seemed to struggle to figure out what the appropriate response should be.

On her birthday that year, about six months after he died, she said: "He's never going to kibitz me again and sing happy birthday." It's one of the few phrases I can hear her voice actually saying. She sounded like she didn't know what to do with the information.

When Dr. Markowitz finished with me, I went to stand up and nearly fainted. I stumbled to the desk to pay, then across the street to fill my prescriptions. (Ever had a meeting with your boss while on Percoset? I highly recommend it.)

On the subway, again, I started crying, and couldn't stop until I got to Times Square. I imagined what Anna Wintour would think if she saw me, and laughed at myself for the thought.

After the Storm

I've been thinking a lot lately about the apparent connection between binge eating and the tendency (well, my tendency) to let problems become disastrous or otherwise five-star alarm before sorting them out.

I do it with my (messy) flat. I do it, embarrassingly, with my teeth (I thought about this in the dentist's chair today). I sometimes don't open all my mail. I avoid making choices until, often, I have one all but forced upon me, either by time or necessity or something else beyond my control.

When I'm bingeing, of course, I'm too tired and disgusted and busy feeling worthless to do much else. But when I'm not bingeing, I still don't look after my affairs the way an adult should. (Yes, I am exhausted from working until midnight a lot of nights, and spending a lot of my time doing things I don't want to do. But that really isn't an excuse to have a flat messy enough that no one can come in.)

Is it because I think I've accomplished enough and struggled enough by not bingeing, and therefore should be granted cosmic credit from the universe that absolves me from doing un-fun chore-type things? Or is it connected, in some way, to shame? All of these things – and bingeing, too, of course – are deeply embarrassing. I was marinating in shame sitting in the dentist's chair today, with more cavities than arelatively privileged 35-year-old woman in from a First World country ever ought to have. (Yes, you can insert joke about British teeth here. I'm too busy fearing tomorrow's wisdom tooth extraction...)

Life would be so much simpler and cleaner (in all sense of the word) and dare I say easier if I would just do a little more footwork. A little cleaning here and there and I wouldn't have to make up elaborate excuses why people can't come over, or fear something going wrong in my flat because it's too messy to call the super. A little more dealing with choices (mail, dates, whatever) and just finishing making an actual decision – instead of just thinking about – and I could rid myself of the stress of knowing I need to make a decision. Etc. Etc Etc.

I feel like if I could isolate why it is I do this to myself I would have an important piece of information about why I binge; why the tendency is there. Why do I feel (a) like I have earned some kind of right to a free pass that keeps me from having to do these things, (b) the need to be shamed (because clearly, on some level, I feel that), and (c) that I can put up with the consequences of living the way that I do. (Yes, I'm sure the latter two are linked.)

Anyway. As you might have guessed from the above there's been a lot of navel-gazing going on in Bethville. I've lately been beset by a huge case of what-the-hell-does-it-all-matter (I'm referring to weight here), and – wait for it – shame that I obsess about it so much. But that's a subject for another post, I suppose.

***

Thanks for the kind words on the run. I do actually know about the trick of wearing extra layers to chuck off at the start, except the New York half required you to wear your race bib on your outermost layer at all times. I also did a reasonably good job of cleaning out clothes I'd like to throw away in the move and, um, still haven't unpacked most of my non-winter boxes. (See shame, as above.)

Fat(ter) But Fit(ter)

This morning I ran my best ever half marathon time: 1:57:39 – 13.1 miles at an 8:59 pace. At 7:30 in the morning, on not nearly enough sleep and less than ideal conditions.

I'm pretty stoked about this for multiple reasons. The first is that I feared that

I'd lost an awful lot of my fitness since I left London. (Yes, I have been working out in New York, but – as I've bleated on about – at neither the length nor intensity I did in London. Though perhaps lately I've been working out more efficiently? Anyway.) The second is that I pulled this off with not quite enough training: Among other things, I didn't start running again until about 10 weeks ago, and the longest run I did was 9 miles, done two weeks ago.

Third, the conditions for this particular race sucked – at least for marshmallow-livered me. It was literally freezing outside -- thanks to a case of Raynaud's (you're online already, so page Dr. Google ;)), the cold and I do not get along. And we had to be in our corrals (makes us sound like farm animals, no?) no later than 7:10 am, so I had 20 minutes of standing around freezing. (Why didn't I just layer up? Well, I did, but Raynaud's in particular affects my toes and fingers, and I can't wear multiple pairs of socks and run). I literally couldn't feel my toes for the first mile.

Fourth, my headphones broke about halfway through the race.

Finally, I can remember a time in the not-too-distant past when running a 10-minute mile was a big deal (and heck, when running a mile at all was a huge deal, whatever the speed). Running 13 miles at sub-9 minutes made me feel, for lack of a better word, like something approaching an athlete.

Crazy.

***

Another reason I was psyched about my race time: I'm a week post-binge. Yes, the inevitable – or so it seemed – London binge. I am beyond exhausted between the travel, the subsequent week of working until midnight every night, and yes, the race (though really, more that my West Village neighbors, aka the bars, kept me awake until nearly 2:30 am when I had to be up at 5:30 am). So more on the previous soon, though I will say I'm not beating myself up about it nearly as much as usual. Another step forward, it seems.