Last night I scratched bottom. No, I dove in the deep end, hit concrete and jack hammered to near the earth’s core. I find comfort where comfort is lacking in food. It was my M.O. as a chubby kid and fat teen, now it’s a one-off thing, rarely occurring. When it does I can pinpoint the source. I know the hole that needs filled.
After an otherwise lovely dinner out with a friend, the sushi and spring rolls and tiny mochi balls left me empty and wanting more. The two dirty vodka martinis didn’t help; red wine and vodka are panty droppers and I can quickly lose sight of limits.
I couldn’t get full. Once home, after a bag of Boulder Canyon chips, spinach salad with blue cheese crumbles and rustic torn ciabatta bread (with butter), I still wanted more. There wasn’t any since most everything in my healthy living, fresh kitchen requires cooking (hence the odd binge). I went to bed sad and let down and angry with myself, fearing what morning would bring.
Aside from a bit of water bloat showing in the puffy pink lines around my eyes, I felt fine. Really good in fact. Perhaps my binge was a purge. I woke early to make a cardio and weights class; near the end of 90 sweaty minutes I tasted a faint, odd burp, but was surprised at the energy and endurance coming out of my body. I had a good deal of fuel to burn. I pounded loads of water and citrus all day, and made a light, lemony herb de Provence roasted chicken for dinner after finding beautiful Meyers at the grocery.
I always forgive the slip-and-falls, regroup and keep going. Mostly because this was me at Christmas last year. I know how to do this. There's want and need to keep going.
Last night was about comfort, an eating frenzy born not of boredom or relationships or family or money. Or being lonely. It was about writing. The career wish I made came true, I’m paid to write and it comes with a dental plan. And I like it very much. Now I’m also taking on general business writing for our Web site that garners millions of hits per day. They asked for me specifically. They want my words. And I don’t want to give them anymore. I miss my writing and at the end of the day (paycheck and moderately comfortable living aside), am starting to resent work taking all the words, leaving me exhausted to express mine. I want my toes to curl too. I don’t know when (or if) I’ll get the stones to jump from a steady ledge, but feel the hands pressing on my back.
I'll just try to keep them out of my mouth.