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.

Forty Days and Forty Nights

Up late writing, two nights in a row – though (part of) tonight's was that it wasn't until 11.45ish that I finally had time to do the fiction writing. Desperately trying not get out of the habit as fast as I am (almost) in it.

Just a quick post lest anyone (Bueller? Bueller?) wonder if the silence means I've fallen down the binge hole. I haven't, although it's been a tough few days on the food front – often so hungry that all I can do is be grateful that most days have not been like this.

And today at the nutritionist we spent a lot of time discussing food (duh!), which made me embarrassed about the lack of variety in my diet, my weird food issues (not a fan of many sauces; don't often mix foods together unless it's, say, a stew) and of course, hungry. Because I am, of course, very suggestible.

It was 7 pm when she weighed me. (I was amused when she held up a pair of pants and a shirt and showed me another client stashes with her as a "weigh-in day" outfit, and that others have all kinds of rituals – she must have seen it all, especially in New York City.) I had originally said I didn't want to know the number, and that I'd close my eyes or get on backwards. And then I decided I was being ridiculous. She wants to weigh me weekly, although if my appointment time changes (I don't always expect it to be at that time), how useful will that be, since weight can fluctuate within a day at least as much as it could in a week.

Oh well. I'll try to let her do her job without interfering too much. That's why I went to her in the first place. (I have, however, insisted I will not eat eggs for breakfast – I don't care how full they make other people; I do not ever get as full from them as I do from oatmeal, and I am an expert on myself, if nothing else.)

Weight on her scale, at 7 pm, was 178. Again, not freaking out particularly. Although I suspect I will if I go back next week and it's up drastically. Of course, I'm supposed to be going to the Catskills for the weekend, so who knows what I might eat?

Day 40.

Heavy

First the caveats.

It's hot out. It was in the afternoon, and after I'd drunk a lot (of non-alcoholic beverages).

Don't ask me what, exactly, possessed me to do this today, after not having done it for at least a year.

But it seems I have binged, exercised almost daily, and not-focused-on-the-number all the way up to – per the gym scale -- 180 pounds.

Which is nearly 40 pounds more than I weighed at my lowest weight ever, in 2009. A weight which, OK, I accept – based on commentary of friends and family since then – to have been too low. I think I was 150-155 when I left England in 2010.

I'm not sure I've quite processed it, because I am not freaking out quite as much as I thought I might be, although of course I immediately felt ginormous when I looked in the mirror. Or at least, more ginormous than usual. Funny how a dress that looked almost OK the other day (because I don't like how I look in much of anything these days) immediately seemed to fit differently (translation: worse).

I feel like it's no longer acceptable for me to walk around in gym clothes, which I often do. (Maybe this is the excuse I need to stop being so sloppy and you know, maybe even put on some lipstick every once in a while.)

I immediately want to set all kinds of goals. 165? 150? 155? Yowza, 25 pounds?

And then I stop my mind racing about it, or try to.

I know that when I've been very overweight, 180-185 was always the point where I'd start to look normal-ish – where I could walk into any shop and find something that fit. I guess maybe my body composition has changed or the sizing has, because I can put US 8/10s on my body.

Either way, I need to remember that there have been times in my life when I would have been delighted to be this size, and that I'm still a good 60 pounds lower than I was where I started. And also: That I am headed in the right direction, even if the right direction is no change in weight at all.

Day 38.