I went out last night to join some friends I rarely see for a round of drinks, which of course always becomes several rounds until eventually I announce I have to head home (because I'm the type that turns in early) and I'm reminded, "But it's only eleven o'clock!" And I have a few second conversation in my head, yes, eleven o'clock is early, but not so early as ten o'clock and if I wait untill twelve o'clock it will certainly be late... And then I insist on going home.
What often happens when we go out in groups is that we get to know certain members of the group very well while for some reason or another other members of the group become familiar faces we say hello to if we should pass them on the street, while they remain a satisfactory mystery. Last night, moving in a group of about eight, we drifted into a simple bar next to La Plaine. The bar is full of smoke (there's a pay-off to the authorities, I hear, to allow for the smoking of cigarettes indoors) tinting the low lights a little yellowish, and on the far-side wall is a copy of Divinci's "Last Supper" in which people of the quartier are depicted in the place of Jesus and his disciples. By accident, I found myself sitting next to Emilie, a member of the group I have seen at gatherings like this but have practically never talked to. Somewhere in the trail of meandering conversations, I caught that Emilie, like me, used to be a ballet dancer. Immediately, we perfectly understood each other on a certain level. Over a few glasses of red wine I discover Emilie quit dancing four years ago. Me too... And for the same reasons, at the core.
Why is it that for a moment we liked to get lost in our past pain? For me it was certainly because elements of it are laughably rediculous, and even more humourous because we both experienced the same irrational ideas, and finally because we both suddenly feel alright.
The grocery store to me, for many years was a museum. Where I would go alone to ooh and ah at the endless shelves of beautiful sauces and snacks and ideas of ingredients I could mix together to create something I should never eat. When I wasn't lost in the fantasy of these stunning works of art, my head was full of numbers, 70 calories in an egg but only 17 if I just eat the white, 70 calories in an apple and 80 calories in an orange. Eat the apple obviously... Then there was the question, am I hungry? I think I'm hungry because my stomach is making these sort of loud rumbling noises and because I feel a bit dizzy and shakey, but I ought not to be hungry because I ate an orange an hour ago. At night sometimes I could not sleep with the knowledge that there was leftover birthday cake in the kitchen. I will not, I will not, I will not... Useless... 1am, 2am, 3am I'm up again... 3:30 am the cake is mostly gone (except for the small part I left in hopes that the rest of the household won't notice there is less cake in the morning than when they went to bed), my hands are sticky and I weigh an extra .25 lbs on the bathroom scale.
Why is this funny? It's funny and sad that I spent years wondering how people around me appeared to be eating and enjoying it, or not thinking about it. Eating because they were hungry or forgetting to eat because they were busy.
So last night in conversation with Emilie, we shared how we never imagined we could eat like normal people... But now we are... Foie gras and pumpkin soup and champagne... And I enjoyed it too. It's not that now I think I am perfect, it's just that now it doesn't matter so much. I can be happy for a variety of reasons not involving having dropped a few decimals on a scale, and I can be horribly sad, but I can now clearly see why I'm sad instead of getting those heavey feelings all tangled up in self-hatred because I see myself as fat.
So last night, I drank two glasses of red wine and had dinner too.
