One side effect of having a job that constantly required me to recognize people is that I often think I do – and often I am wrong.
This time I wasn’t.
I was sitting in a Caffe Nero on the Fulham Road, and I looked up from an article I was working on. I caught a glimpse of a familiar posture at a faraway table, although the frame looked a little to heavy to be the guy I was thinking of, who was freakishly thin.
He got up, went to the bathroom, and when he came back I saw his face. It was him – the guy I dated right when I moved to London. I met him on the third day I was here.
“I haven’t seen you for ages,” he said.
“I moved to New York,” I said.
We talked about his half-brother, who I’d read had died of a drug overdose while on a gap year in India a couple of years ago. And about his dad, who was dying of Alzheimers. He told me he and the Russian not-wife (not being catty; just that they’re both north of 40 and seems funny to call her a girlfriend) are having a baby in a couple of days. It’s a boy they’re calling Michael, F’s father’s middle name.
“Are you in a relationship?” he asked.
I didn’t answer this one as coolly as I would have liked. I stammered something out, somewhat surprised that he asked – and that we seemed to be having a more personal conversation than any we had when we were dating.
He recommended a book I should read. I realized I have no idea what his taste in books is, and if it is at all similar to mine.
Sweet mystery of life.
Saturday 30 June 2012
Thursday 28 June 2012
London Calling
“How’s BN2?” the instructor said suddenly today, mid-workout.
I’m in London, and was at my favorite Heartcore Pilates, with the very instructor who taught us the day I dragged BN2 to class at least three years ago. (I’ve been living in New York for 18 months, BN2 and I split up nearly a year before I moved, and I seem to recall the time we went together was in the summer.)
I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been, actually. I haven’t been to London for nearly a year (I believe last year I landed on July 1), and every step I take – and I love to walk in London – unleashes a flood of memories. It’s not unpleasant; just loaded with psychic baggage. Like walking at the bottom of a pool.
Wednesday night I went to Putney, where I lived all but fulltime for two of the darkest years of my life. I did not see BN2, thankfully, but it was like stumbling into the soundstage where my nightmares are shot. I nearly cried walking over Putney Bridge, remembering all the journeys I’d made there and the dread of what mood he might be in when I arrived. And I realized I didn’t fully exhale until a couple of hours later, when I crossed back to the north side of the river.
***
Today is a year to the day since I left the horrible job – the job for which I gave up my entire life in London. I stop myself from saying the job is the worst thing that ever happened to me because (1) it isn’t, and (2) frankly, I should be so lucky that the worst thing that happens to me in my entire life is a high-paying job at a prestigious company. Hello, first world problem.
It has been a long, hard year, and I’ve learned an awful lot. And I’m almost afraid to say it, lest it be taken away, but lately I have been having a seriously good time. I still work far too many hours and pull all-nighters freaking out over certain stories (the last one – yowza! I tried and tried and tried to write it but just could not get anything down on paper until 3 am. I swear with every story I keep waiting for an editor to say: OK, that’s it. You’ve failed your way upward but it is all going to stop now.) But on Saturday morning (yes, the work spills all over the place), I slammed my laptop shut after speaking to a source in Nicaragua for an hour and thought: I love my job. Yes, I am self-employed and sometime my boss really sucks (honestly, what is she thinking doing some of these stories?), but I am actually making a living doing something I love to bits. I almost can’t believe it.
***
So if life is so great, why am I bingeing so damn much?
Last Thursday I hit 21 days without bingeing, which happens to be more than I have managed since February, when I hit about 25 days. Then on Friday, in Washington DC for some meetings (and then my triplet nephews’ second birthday party Saturday), I started bingeing that evening and could not stop. I binged for five days, off and on – through the birthday party, but somehow not during the six hours of queuing when my flight was cancelled or on the flight itself (though I did overeat on it). Then in Oxford (what’s a nice Jewish girl like me doing at Jesus College, you ask? Me, too), and again on my first day in London on the 26th, when I made it through the whole day and then started bingeing at 10 pm. Five days of bingeing is more days in a row than I have done in at least a year, and possible not since 2006.
I promised myself that if I could not stop bingeing I would have to get on a plane back home, because if I’m bingeing, I am not really here. I am off in my head, plotting what and where and how much and how on earth I’m going to get it.
But I didn’t binge yesterday, and I have not binged today. I have eaten more than usual, and had an extra snack both days. I’d like to say I don’t really care, which is almost true. It is a relief not to be bingeing. Now if only anything in my suitcase fit besides a maxidress… and, um, my gym clothes.
I’m in London, and was at my favorite Heartcore Pilates, with the very instructor who taught us the day I dragged BN2 to class at least three years ago. (I’ve been living in New York for 18 months, BN2 and I split up nearly a year before I moved, and I seem to recall the time we went together was in the summer.)
I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been, actually. I haven’t been to London for nearly a year (I believe last year I landed on July 1), and every step I take – and I love to walk in London – unleashes a flood of memories. It’s not unpleasant; just loaded with psychic baggage. Like walking at the bottom of a pool.
Wednesday night I went to Putney, where I lived all but fulltime for two of the darkest years of my life. I did not see BN2, thankfully, but it was like stumbling into the soundstage where my nightmares are shot. I nearly cried walking over Putney Bridge, remembering all the journeys I’d made there and the dread of what mood he might be in when I arrived. And I realized I didn’t fully exhale until a couple of hours later, when I crossed back to the north side of the river.
***
Today is a year to the day since I left the horrible job – the job for which I gave up my entire life in London. I stop myself from saying the job is the worst thing that ever happened to me because (1) it isn’t, and (2) frankly, I should be so lucky that the worst thing that happens to me in my entire life is a high-paying job at a prestigious company. Hello, first world problem.
It has been a long, hard year, and I’ve learned an awful lot. And I’m almost afraid to say it, lest it be taken away, but lately I have been having a seriously good time. I still work far too many hours and pull all-nighters freaking out over certain stories (the last one – yowza! I tried and tried and tried to write it but just could not get anything down on paper until 3 am. I swear with every story I keep waiting for an editor to say: OK, that’s it. You’ve failed your way upward but it is all going to stop now.) But on Saturday morning (yes, the work spills all over the place), I slammed my laptop shut after speaking to a source in Nicaragua for an hour and thought: I love my job. Yes, I am self-employed and sometime my boss really sucks (honestly, what is she thinking doing some of these stories?), but I am actually making a living doing something I love to bits. I almost can’t believe it.
***
So if life is so great, why am I bingeing so damn much?
Last Thursday I hit 21 days without bingeing, which happens to be more than I have managed since February, when I hit about 25 days. Then on Friday, in Washington DC for some meetings (and then my triplet nephews’ second birthday party Saturday), I started bingeing that evening and could not stop. I binged for five days, off and on – through the birthday party, but somehow not during the six hours of queuing when my flight was cancelled or on the flight itself (though I did overeat on it). Then in Oxford (what’s a nice Jewish girl like me doing at Jesus College, you ask? Me, too), and again on my first day in London on the 26th, when I made it through the whole day and then started bingeing at 10 pm. Five days of bingeing is more days in a row than I have done in at least a year, and possible not since 2006.
I promised myself that if I could not stop bingeing I would have to get on a plane back home, because if I’m bingeing, I am not really here. I am off in my head, plotting what and where and how much and how on earth I’m going to get it.
But I didn’t binge yesterday, and I have not binged today. I have eaten more than usual, and had an extra snack both days. I’d like to say I don’t really care, which is almost true. It is a relief not to be bingeing. Now if only anything in my suitcase fit besides a maxidress… and, um, my gym clothes.
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