Better Days

Yesterday, my sister posted photos on Facebook of a family gathering this past weekend with her husband's side – a huge clan that gathers for all kinds of events. I looked wistfully at the photos, because – thanks to deaths and grudges older than my sister and me -- our side of the family is tiny, and with a history of gathering only for milestone events (weddings, if that).

 "I'm sure it had its trying moments," I wrote to my sister. "But I'm glad the munchkins [my nephews] get to have the experience."

 Today she posted photos of the boys' birthday party back in June. These I also clicked through wistfully, because although I attended the event, I wasn't there. I had started bingeing the day before, which carried on to the day of the party (and on through my trip to London) – and at the point I'm guessing the photos were taken, I had popped back to her house as a timeout. I had been so full I could hardly stand up straight.

Eventually I recovered enough to rejoin the party, which was at a park three blocks away, but the damage was done. I remember spending the last bits of the event loathing myself for bingeing for what was, then, the second day in a row. So even though I was there, I wasn't.

As always, I hope that was the last time I do something like that. But all I can say for anything close to sure is that at least today, I will not do that.

 ***

Last night comes back to me in flashes of shame. Not because I did anything terrible, but because I agreed to it in the first place.

 I was meeting Mr. Disappointment, and it was, as his moniker would suggest (but I am an appallingly slow learner), a disappointment – even though this was to be meeting as friends. After a lot of last-minute back and forth over the past few weeks, and nothing quite working out, we finally met up for a movie last night.

He was driving back from the country, and said he'd meet me at 8.50 (movie was at 9.30) at a theatre in the East Village. Ten minutes before the appointed time, he texted me that he was at a restaurant nearby grabbing food, and I agreed to come over there. (I'd already eaten.) I hadn't seen him since the beginning of May, and my first thought upon seeing him was: Ick. He looked sweaty and dirty and I'd forgotten about his weird front teeth. He had on cut-off jean shorts (yes, really) and black socks and black sneakers.

It was a noodle kitchen and he was seated at the counter, where there was no room for me. So I stood there awkwardly in the steam, feeling ridiculous and extraneous. Which is pretty much how I felt for the rest of the night.

We saw Savages. I am a somewhat violent movie watcher – which is to say, I react somewhat violently when there is violence, and in this film there is a lot – and at one point he looked over and said: "Are you OK?"

When the film was over he said: "I'm going this way," pointing east. I said, "I'm going that way," pointing west. He kissed me on both cheeks and I walked off without looking back.

Rare for me, I didn't turn on my iPod and daydream. Instead I reviewed the evening, such as it was, and thought: You know what, if I want to see a movie I can go and see one myself, because that's pretty much what happened here. And then I thought something novel, at least for me: I deserve better.

Day thirteen.