After the Storm

I told myself I was walking uptown because I wanted the exercise and because cabs were nearly impossible to find, but the truth is, I didn’t want to stop bingeing.

I knew that when I arrived at my friend’s in Harlem, I’d have to stop eating. And I didn’t want to. And yet I wanted to badly enough to choose the option of staying with her over others.

I have no power in my apartment thanks to Sandy, and there is a part of me that easily could have stayed there, endlessly eating nonperishable food (hello, Hostess apple pies!) and telling myself I’d get my act together when the power went on. There is another part of me that yearned to take up another invitation on East 83^rd Street, where I’m sure there would be something of a party atmosphere: lots of wine and carbs.

And yet here I am in Harlem, having gone nearly 36 hours without a binge.

It feels especially significant, not just because I feared I would never be able to stop, but because I can so easily see where I would have done it differently; the point where I would have looked back and said: That is where I gave up.

When the power went out Monday night, I already was well on my way to a binge. I’d been bingeing on and off since Saturday, and I just couldn’t seem to stop.

I drank for the first time in months: A drink bought for me by a random (cute) trader I found standing in my doorway when I went out just before the height of the hurricane. Then champagne with my neighbor, and OPP (other people’s pinot) by candlelight with other friends. I ended with chips and melted ice cream, after a package of Hostess apple pies and something else I can’t quite remember from one of the three bodegas at which I never buy binge food. (What can I say? It was the only one open.)

I woke up the next morning hung over and anxious. My phone and computer had died, and I had a story closing for which the hurricane would not be an excuse. I had breakfast, then trekked 30 blocks uptown until I found a Verizon store allowing people (and there was a huge queue) to charge devices. By then it was 2 pm, and I just wanted to eat. And keep eating.

I was already in the 30s, and my friend lives at 123^rd Street. I didn’t think I’d walk all the way there, but I kept thinking: I’ll walk until I find a doughnut shop. OK, I’ll walk to Magnolia Bakery in midtown. But few things were open. I kept thinking grumpily: If this is going to be my last binge ever, it surely is a crummy one. I walked to Levain Bakery on 74^th Street, whose cookies are legendary. I’ve never had one; it wasn’t open. That’s when I decided to jump in a cab.

I got to Harlem and had the cab stop 2 blocks away and I ran into the only shop open for one last hurrah. There wasn’t much. I looked around frantically, then – half desperately, half reluctantly – ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. It was a poor excuse for one, and I ate almost mournfully.

One day without a binge.

It's a Sin

A few weeks ago I had a few days where I actually struggled to eat.

Regular readers (if there are any left) know that is not very Beth. I do not lose my appetite. Ever. In fact, I am the person who cannot answer the question “Are you hungry?” without first thinking: Hmmm, how recently has this person seen me eat and what did I eat?

The struggle to eat was only the second time I can remember such a thing happening in my entire life. (The first was Labor Day Weekend 2001, when I truly understood that my mother was dying, and that we would have to hire her an aide.)

I had a week that I thought would be career-destroying. It may yet still be career-maiming; I will never know for sure.

All it took was one blogger – one 23-year-old blogger who fancies himself a media reporter -- to hurl the accusation that I had committed the cardinal sin of journalism in what is arguably the U.S.’s preeminent paper of record. Which is to say, that I had made up some of the people in an article.

He eventually retracted this claim – and the story is a little more complicated; my sin in this case is to have been a bit naïve and too trusting – but the damage was done. Few people read corrections and clarifications. Though my editors gracefully and graciously defended both me and my work (unbelievable, when you consider that in these days the generally accepted response is to let the freelancer take the fall), I had (and may still have) bloggers and Tweeps and all manner of other witch-hunters picking through my previous stories, looking for any possible evidence of wrongdoing and gleefully posting it to social media.

It was horrible.

People I knew were retweeting things that weren’t true. Media writers I know pointed out my (perceived) sins, most of the time without reaching out to me for comment (which is in itself a sin of journalism) and without saying they knew me and in one case, had actually worked for them at one point. And I’m still hurt by the lack of support shown by people I thought were my friends. (If you wonder if perhaps they didn’t know – suffice it to say that some of them are both in the media and have a personal interest in the story I wrote.)

Thanks to Google, this incident will follow me around for the rest of my life, trailing me like cans tied to the back of a car bumper. And so I spent a week questioning whether I wanted to be in this profession any more – this profession that eats sinners and perceived sinners alive; this cynical, nasty profession.

I don’t know and can’t say if this incident will make it impossible for me ever to write for the two magazines that always have been my goal. Frankly, I don’t know if even without this if I would ever make it into them.

I spent a lot of time thinking about what I do and why I do it and what I might do instead. (I come up blank on that last one.) I still think about it.

What? What’s that you say? This is a diet blog?

Oh right.

I didn’t struggle not to binge for the three days immediately after this episode. I forced myself to eat, trying not to indulge in fantasies about what might fit if I didn’t. Severe restriction has never done me any great favors.

I knew that the trouble would probably come when things calmed down, which I knew they would eventually, even thought in the middle of something like that it feels like they never will.

I’m afraid to jinx myself by saying things have calmed down, but at the moment they are not as bad as they were. I can check my e-mail without the dread of what might be there, and even focus on conversations. (Right in the thick of things my editor encouraged me to go and get a massage, and I had to tell her that it would be ruined by spending the whole time dreading what might be waiting for me on my e-mail or Twitter.)

Today, should I get through it – there are about four hours left of it, but I can do crazy amounts of damage in about 90 seconds – will be 23 without a binge.

Summer Nights

So, that happened.

And by "that" I mean the summer.

I'm more than a little bit embarrassed to admit that apart from that one trip to the Catskills and about one day of Labor Day weekend, I have worked every single day of this summer, weekends included. Certainly of July and August. Most days until midnight; the past two weeks until 3 and 4 am. People have vacationed and gotten engaged and had babies and read books and watched television and taken walks in the park and I have... sat in front of this computer. (And sometimes the one I use when I'm out and about.)

I have another few things to do (stories to report and write, and then also things such as, ugh, my taxes), and currently feel like I'm on mile 25 of the marathon, but cannot get it together even to walk the last 1.2. Actually, maybe given the fact that one of the things I must do is my taxes, I'd better say mile 24.

Anyway.

I am not complaining, exactly, because I chose this life, and it does beat working almost as many hours doing a job I hated. But I am so very tired, and nearly out of words. Which is my apology, of sorts, for woeful blog neglect.

The binge seems like a long time ago – I was surprised to count on my fingers that it was 16 days ago – but at the moment, so does everything, even the beginning of the week.

Friend Bearing Chocolate arrives tomorrow for the weekend. I am more than a little bit concerned about going off the rails while she's here, partly because – to be honest – the last I feel like doing is entertaining anyone, and we all know how well I do when I'm trapped.

But I have made some plans (including, yay, theater tickets!) and I'll take it one meal at a time. Which is all anyone can ever do, right? 

How the Other Half Lives

The darkness that usually comes once the fog has lifted (about 72 hours) came a tiny bit earlier this time around. Usually after day two I have a few days of relief that my one-day binge has not (yet) turned into a multi-day affair, but I am not feeling quite so grateful this time around.

Which is not good. Because I felt absolutely wretched on Wednesday, and have no desire to repeat the experience. Not, of course, that I ever do. I wish there were some way when one feels the urge to binge to have just a brief sampling of how unbelievably awful one will feel afterward.

Apart from learning I gained a little over a pound today, at the moment I feel curiously unbothered by the binge. I suppose it is because I have been living my life in a way that I do not usually after a binge. I went out to dinner on Saturday night and ordered a starter (a Bibb lettuce, strawberry, and bleu cheese salad) and a main. I did not ask for the dressing on the side of the salad. I asked for no alterations to my pork chop, even though the vegetable it came with was made with bacon.

I haven't ordered this way in years. I haven't been exercising like a madwoman. And I suspect without the big fried dinner on Tuesday night plus the binge I might not even have gained weight.

I wouldn't eat the way I did Saturday every night. I suspect most other people don't, either.

It all feels curiously like the way I imagine the rest of the world lives.

Like life, or something like it.

Day Six.

If It Isn't One Thing...

It was a busy and happy day, a lots-of-interesting-conversations-day. 

A one thing after another day, in a good way. 

Until suddenly, out of nowhere, it wasn't.

Feeling low and weary, but only briefly, thankfully, like eating more would be a good idea.

Day Three. 

The Most Mixed Up Non Delinquent on the Block

Once upon a time there was a girl who hit 47 days without bingeing.

She managed during the weeks she wasn't allowed to exercise.

And – if that weren't stressful enough for her -- the near sleepless nights and endless, well, stress of too many deadlines stacked up (something that will continue through the beginning of September.)

Then there was the three-hour car ride that ended up taking seven (!) and the weekend in the Catskills, where she happily – and without bingeing – consumed full fat yogurt, eggs from the hen up the road (that twice had double yolks), goat cheese, butter, and vegetables prepared with plenty of olive oil and pesto. Saturday night at dinner she actually ordered the thing on the menu she most wanted to eat, as opposed to the thing she thought she "should" eat. (And per the nutritionist's scale Monday, she even lost weight – about four pounds, unbelievably.)

She had her scary lunch meeting at a publication she loves Tuesday, and – in the words of her editor – "This went well." (But still she second guesses it.)

All the while, she was on guard. Binges sometimes happen right after what seems like the biggest hurdles are jumped. The sigh-of-relief binge, if you will.

That night, the girl went to a long-planned dinner that night at ABC Kitchen with friends. They split a lot of fried things, including desserts and bottles of wine (her first in 47 days).

 Then she walked out of the restaurant and binged. It wasn't an urgent binge, where she was jut waiting for the dinner to finish so she could go and do it. It was more of a hmmm, this is what we usually do when we eat this kind of food – we binge after.

She ate a package of Hostess-like cupcakes. A black and white cookie. A piece of pound-type cake. A soft pretzel. Another cupcake (crummy). And then she went to Magnolia, where she ate ¾ of a piece of cake and threw the rest out in disgust.

She woke up Wednesday morning after not much sleep, feeling worse than she had in, well, 47 days. She spent nearly 48 hours trying to figure out if there were any way on the planet not to call this a binge.

She thought about just glossing over it, maybe stopping the day count like perhaps she'd forgotten it. She thought about a lot of things, none of which involved the truth, which is that she binged.

I binged.

And here I am, starting over again.

Day 2. 

Hazy Days of Summer

This week has been a blur.

Sunday I worked all day and stayed up until 2; still didn't finish the proposal I was supposed to turn in ages ago, and said I'd turn in Monday. I'm used to a lot of work and hoop-jumping before anything gets green-lit, but this one is killing me.

Monday: Up until 3 am working: interviews, pitches, and actual writing. Filed daily piece. Tried not to panic about how many days left of this and how much of a mess I might make of everything.

Tuesday: Lined up interviews for piece due in a week, because although I'll wait until the last minute to write it, you can't wait until the last minute to even start finding people to interview. Up until 2 am to finish story due Wednesday. (And did.) Filed daily piece. Tried not to panic, etc.

Wednesday: Stayed up until four a.m. on a piece that is killing me that was due today. I pulled an all-nighter doing the original one July 5. It was kicked back to me three weeks  later. And now again. Slightly embarrassed. This is not typical (for me), and I've never appeared in this magazine. Conducted interview for another story due next week at 10 pm, because that's when he could do it. Gave self a hard time for not doing fiction writing. Debated skipping NYC Fringe performance to which I'd contributed on Kickstarter, but then decided that I'd probably be up until the same time that night anyway, and would be sad I'd missed it. (Yes, I would have been. It was lovely and affecting.) Waited out torrential rains in East Village cafe with wifi – and loads and loads of cupcakes (behind glass; I didn't have any.) Filed daily piece. Panic, web-surfing, debating of acquiring 9 to 5 job that can be left at the office.  Hoppity-hopped through midtown (a true story, coming shortly).

Today: Up at 8 am in attempt to finish piece as had promised editor I'd turn it in today. Dealt with a handful of particularly annoying and demanding sources for another piece. Started panicking about meeting I have next week – what I will wear, how much of an idiot I will sound like, convinced self it will be cancelled anyway. Got back to work. Filed daily piece. Lined up more interviews for other stories due; tried not to think about what else I signed on to do this month blah blah panic.Still miles to go tonight and it's near midnight.

Not a typical week, at least not a typical week I remember from any time recently.

I thought about posting to say I was still here and not bingeing, but it felt a little the-whole-world-is-Beth-centric to me.

But, you know, I am still here and haven't binged.

Somewhat unbelievably. Must be careful, though, since I suspect the urge may be quite strong once I get through this – or to self-sabotage before the meeting I have next week. And I'm going not just off grid but completely out of cell phone and wifi range for a couple of days with friends I have not been away with before. Yes, there is a bit of panic on my part. But I can't never go anywhere again, so here goes nothing.

***

So the hippity-hop through midtown?

When last we left our heroine, she was sporting a cast on her left foot. On Wednesday, when she went to the doctor, she didn't so much forget a shoe as it did not actually occur to her that she might need one. Whether this is sheer idiocy or pessimism or a mix of both – well, you make the call.

Cast comes off (also somewhat unbelievably). I thought for sure I couldn't be the only person ever to be this dumb/pessimistic in history of the practice, but apparently I am. Office assistant just looked at me like I was crazy and went back to what she was doing.

And so if you saw a girl in a long blue dress and one pink-and-white sneaker hopping down Seventh Avenue (in the rain) to the Penn Station taxi rank... well, you probably thought exactly what I was thinking: What the hell?

Day 43.