And This, To Boot

No exercise of any kind whatsoever for at least two weeks.

That was the instruction from the doctor, who thinks I have a stress fracture. It is the “thinks” that is driving me crazy. Like, what if this isn’t the problem and he first has to start figuring out some other solution in two weeks? I’m guessing that whatever is wrong with my foot can only be helped by two weeks of rest, but still…

Possibly worse than the rest is the cast/boot I have to wear, which is more painful than the injury. Seriously. And I have to wear it all the time, including in my apartment. At the moment it is uncomfortable enough that I can hardly think straight. How on earth am I going to write?

I nearly cried when the doctor made his pronouncement – and that was before I knew about the boot (much less tried it). It set off – and continues to set off – a wave of panic about weight gain, bingeing, and total loss of fitness. (Oh, let’s be honest – the panic is about weight gain. If I could eat as much as I wanted and see no ill effects from it, I probably would.)

Immediately I started thinking about what and how I can cut my food because I am not exercising or even walking my usual amount, but I know that I can’t do that. So I feel trapped. Which, I don’t need to remind you, is a binge trigger.

I should laugh that I am this distraught about at least two weeks of being prohibited to exercise – my elementary/teenage self would have been delighted. But it's been since November 2006 since I went more than about four days without exercise. These days, working out is more than just calorie burn – it’s how I get going in the morning, how I de-stress, where I get ideas for stories, and often, how I think things out. I take a break from writing and I exercise or go for a walk with my ipod on, and sometimes, the words I tried all morning or afternoon to write unjumble themselves into a coherent thought. Sometimes.

Day 27.

The Cake, the Whole Cake...

Yesterday, I took the cake.

My friend decided she wanted Magnolia, and so off we went. I actually didn't want any – well, didn't actively crave it – and so thought about saying no, but I wondered if it might lead to a binge either later in the day or in a few days' time.

I was unreasonably disappointed to see the cake was not its usual height (meaning my piece might not be as bit) and actually asked why, since the van-van was a good inch lower than the others.  

"It depends on who frosts it," came the reply. "It just means there's less frosting."

I frowned, embarrassed – as I still am, recounting this -- at how much that made me feel like crying. I love frosting. I thought: I didn't really want cake that badly but now I absolutelymusthaveit and what if the frosting isn't enough? What if it's just those few teaspoons less of frosting that make the difference between me feeling like I've had enough and me feeling like I need to eat another two or seven slices?

Unreasonable, moi?

"Do you still want it?" the guy asked. I might have yelled if I trusted myself to speak. I nodded.

"Don't worry, I'll give you a good piece," he said.

Dying.

Feeling impatient (which I was, waiting to pay for my slice) and anxious pre-cake-eating is never ever a good sign. It is almost a 100 percent successful predictor that I will carry on and binge. I knew this, and yet... well, I didn't do anything about it.

My (jetlagged) friend wanted to go back to her place and eat her slice in air conditioning. I almost couldn't wait for her to go and then I tore into the cake like... well, like someone who would have been mighty embarrassed had anyone she knew seen her.

As soon as I'd finished I panicked. Actually, that's a lie – I panicked through the eating of the entire thing. The urge to binge was so strong I thought a cartoon hand would punch a hole straight through my stomach, reaching out and grabbing anything it could. Well, that's what I think in retrospect: In the moment I felt like I was going to explode from it. There was one moment, rooted on a spot on 12th Street, where I felt paralyzed from the strength of it all.

Then I blinked. I breathed. I headed into Cynthia Rowley, just curious to see if the prices there were the same as dresses of hers I'd seen at a boutique in Brooklyn earlier in the day. (Believe it or not, the dresses were more expensive in Brooklyn.) Then I lingered, trying on shoes. I even tried on a dress on sale.

I don't know whether she just was being diplomatic, but the saleswoman brought over the next size up, saying Rowley's sizes "are tough."

I don't like the size and I still can't judge how I look in clothes at this particular size. But I liked that it was a nice dress; a dress that fits at this size, and not one where the waistband or some other part is too tight but oh-I-can-squeeze-into-it. Yes, it would look better if I lost a few pounds, but these days, wouldn't most things?

I looked in the mirror and thought to myself -- no, willed to myself: You are not going to binge.

I bought the dress. Then I went home, grateful I had plans to meet a friend for dinner.

***

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I slept through my alarm this morning. Not "woke up and hit snooze seven times" but full-on-have-no-memory-of-hearing-it. I woke up three minutes before spin class started, and in a panic about everything I had to get done today, plus things that didn't necessarily have to get done today but have been cluttering my brain for a while.

I felt exhausted, in a fog, and full of rage all day. And all day I kept picking up the decision of when I might get to the gym and putting it down, which probably didn't help. Just before 8 pm, I was more than halfway to a barre class (I'd grabbed dinner a few blocks away from it), but then stood on the corner, wavering. I always wake up from exercise, and I think I really could use the sleep tonight. Plus I have exercised for at least the past five days, so maybe a day off is in order.

Noted: I was on high alert today, and will remain so. I haven't kept detailed notes of the past year of binges the way I've attempted to document these past three weeks, but from what I can reconstruct based on blog entries, there is a 48-to-72-hour danger zone after each strong urge to binge that I manage to wait out. I can't pull the urge out by the roots, it seems.

I realize in retrospect I also felt all day like I was waiting for something (bad) to happen. A binge? Not today. Not yet.

Day 26.

Day 25

The title tells you I didn't binge. There is, of course, more to the story – and it even involves the Magnolia Bakery! – but it's going to have to wait until after some pressing deadlines, alas. 

The Waiting Game

Over the past 23 days, I have eyed up food – black and white cookies, cupcakes, muffins, pizza – but today was the first day I have really, truly wanted to binge and genuinely feared I might.

I had a late lunch at 2.30 pm with a friend visiting from London: eggs, pancakes and sausage, which I inhaled. For dinner we had burgers (I had mine atop a salad – so no carbs, which usually I require to feel full). Maybe it was that I'd tried on a couple of dresses this morning and was upset to find that even after three weeks of not bingeing they still didn't fit. Maybe it was because I almost hoped she'd suggest Magnolia Bakery cupcakes (which she loves) and was a little disappointed (but slightly relieved) when she didn't -- partly because I didn't trust myself, and partly because I knew if we went I'd be wanting a huge slice of cake, which I'd be too embarrassed to order after the food we'd already eaten. 

I don't know what it was. All I know is that I spent a huge chunk of the movie – we saw the new Woody Allen one – thinking about food and wanting to binge. (Who knows – maybe some of the problem was that the movie just wasn't that engaging!) When we left I thought: Hmmm, I could still make it to Magnolia.

I decided I'd have a McDonalds ice cream cone, which (so far) I have been able to eat without it setting off anything crazy. As I walked down Seventh Avenue I popped in to a newsagent to buy a drink, and there were cupcakes. I thought about them – I did.

I nearly ran out of there.

I bought my cone and ate it, and then went to another newsagent for some diet soda (a writing crutch for me). I allowed myself to really contemplate the muffins – going as far as to think about what they would taste like, which is never, ever a good idea.

And suddenly, after what felt like hours of waiting it out, the urge was gone.

Day 24.

Free Fall

Maybe I would have cried anyway. But tonight at yoga, when we began on our backs, chests (and therefore hearts) elevated by a block, tears ran down my cheeks.

It's been that kind of evening. I'm not really sure why – well, that's a lie. I do but I don't have the energy to unpick it – let alone publicly – right now. It is all the usual stuff, nothing new or dramatic. (Maybe I should be grateful, at least, for that.) It's just that I can crater breathtakingly quickly, and without too much provocation. I was happy and busy until sometime midafternoonish.

It probably didn't help that I spoke briefly to my sister, who always manages to make me feel like a freak. In a conversation that lasted all of 10 minutes, she twice (maybe three times) managed to question my decision to go to Greece, and after I told her it was probably going to be another quiet weekend, said a little too hastily and desperately: "But that's by choice, right?" Like, please do not make me worry about you – I would like to get on with my evening. Frankly, I can't really blame her for that.

It is evenings like this that make me wonder why I even try to give up bingeing, if I'm going to be unhappy anyway. Although just typing that I immediately remember that the misery and self-loathing bingeing produces is an order of magnitude or several greater – and that doing so will not make even one of the things dogging me any easier. In fact, it will make it worse.

I just needed to say that out loud.

Day 23.

PS The Italian psychotherapist texted today – he's back from his (Italian) vacation. I didn't expect to hear from him again after I ignored his text just before I left for London. Presumably he's facing the same slim pickings I am, is my best explanation for it, because I don't think that date was me at my most charming. Even if I went out with him again – something I would rather have another evening like tonight than do – I wouldn't find out.  

A Stomach Never Forgets

I've always prided myself in having a good memory, and sometimes my stomach does an even better job than my brain.

It seems not to forget so much as a stray, fleeting thought about whether hey, maybe I'm not that hungry and will be able to skip my snack and maybe lose some weight. The minute I so much as threaten it with slightly less food, it asserts itself. Oh yeah? It seems to say. You will be convinced you're starving all day today.

That's what happened today. I ate my breakfast and immediately wanted more. (Remember the Operation game, where the object was to lift out the little plastic bone or kidney without touching the sides? Sometimes I feel like my food does that in reverse – it goes down without touching anything, meaning I feel like I could eat the meal again immediately. And maybe another four times after that.)

I waited out the urge to eat my morning snack right after breakfast and – as I left the gym – thought to myself: Wow, I could totally live like this. I'm not hungry. And then immediately I thought: Hmmm, maybe I'm eating too much? Maybe I should cut back a little bit? I sat down to do my 45 minutes of fiction-writing at 11 and realized I actually hadn't eaten my snack yet. Like, had almost forgotten about it.

I told myself to eat it anyway, because I know any kind of restriction can lead to bingeing – and because I am determined to get to 30 days without a binge. And all day – even though I ate the usual meals – I was hungry. How hungry? Tonight, so much so that I had to have my extra snack.

It probably didn't help that today brought another invitation I decided I was better off turning down: To a barbecue and beer tasting on Saturday. I am a disaster when it comes to eating food off trays or in a parade of little bits – for years my tried-and-true strategy was no party-eating standing up, and I have always struggled with tapas and mezze. I don't really like beer – or, for that matter, a lot of barbecue (I am not a fan of spicy sauces, or a lot of any kind of sauce). Not, of course, that either of those dislikes would stop me from consuming vast amounts if I got started. Which I am not even giving myself the option of doing, at least not this Saturday.

It occurred to me tonight that maybe the hunger was for a bigger life, because mine feels awfully small at the moment. But bingeing is all about instant gratification, about fear that there will never ever be enough and that my turn will never come. I have to believe that someday it will – if I can stop bingeing long enough.

Day 22.

Sized Up

Today I realized that sometimes I am just hell-bent on feeling bad about myself.

This afternoon I went to press preview of an exercise clothing line. I rarely attend these kinds of events these days – they are more for stylists who would (the brand hopes) be seeing clothes they want to use for photo shoots, and for editors who want an excuse to get out of the office and (usually) get free stuff – but still feel from time to time I must take up the invitation just to keep my seat warm, so to speak.

In London, I can remember the first time I got sized up by a fashion PR and handed a bag with a size small in it – the thrill and validation I got from it. But at an event I went to a couple of months ago I got handed a top that was a medium and bottoms that were a large – accident? I felt even worse about myself a couple of weeks ago at a preview of a new exercise class that also involved a swimwear fashion show. I don't know what anyone else's bag contained, but mine had a scarf – did that mean they'd deemed me too fat for a bathing suit? Tonight I looked in the bag and fumbled with the tag on the top, my heart (seriously) jackhammering. It was a small.

Instead of feeling happy or relieved or anything positive, I immediately wondered (a) if it were a mistake, or (b) everyone received that size. (If I were crazy, I would Google if that brand does XS – actually, I know they do – and start obsessing about that.)

What am I talking about? I am crazy. But at least I know it – and sometimes, can even laugh about it.

Day 21.