Friday was bicycle shopping and dinner at The Irishman's favorite pub. Mmmmmm, bar food, washed down with a v. good gin & tonic. I ate exactly half of the food on my plate, and I'm still feeling guilty about the other half ending up in the garbage. What could I do? I couldn't even come close to finishing. He wanted ice cream, but the line was phenomenally long so we didn't hang around. I was glad to leave, because I think I'm a little afraid of ice cream now. I'm afraid that, confronted with a bowl of full-fat ice cream, I might find that I'm still capable of eating the whole thing. People are starting to notice that I've lost weight, and I just bought pants in the next smaller size. My tops are now medium instead of large, but I think that's also a function of not being afraid to wear them a little snugger. For so long I was draped in large and extra-large shirts, and I was truly shocked to discover that I can wear something slightly more form-fitting without looking cheap or immodest.

Am I playing mind games with myself? Is it possible that I've brainwashed myself into believing that I'm not hungry? Because it just seems so odd that, all of a sudden, I'm only interested in half the amount of food I used to eat. I have plenty of energy, though--in fact, maybe more than when I was eating more. I take my vitamins. I'm making a point of getting out for a walk on my lunch hour and lifting weights at night, because I know what could happen to my metabolic rate on this little food. I would like to see a little less jiggling in the thigh and belly regions, and a little more definition in the calves and upper arms. I would like to look fitter and, okay, sexier. (Now if I start talking about somehow fixing those stretch marks--those pregnancy souvenirs--somebody please talk me down.)

I hijacked my own entry. Unbelievable.

Anyway. Last night was dinner followed by (dum dum DUM) the PARTY. I wore jeans, my black lace-up top, and black leather slides, and I felt just right. His friends were very good to me, and the wine was fantastic, and they were an interesting bunch with lots of education and interesting jobs. Every person he introduced me to asked us, "How did you meet?" "Long story," said The Irishman. "In a bar," I said. Then the other person would laugh and say something like, "But that's a short story! Ah, drunk in a corner, were ya? Well, that's grand." It's funny because The Irishman only drinks a glass of wine now and then with dinner; otherwise he sticks to non-aloholic beer.

We both ran out of steam at about 1:30 and decided to split. As I said goodnight to people, I got this: "We must tell him to keep you around so we can see you again. I'll go and tell him now, shall I? Yes, I'll just go and tell him now, so I will." Then the person would toddle off to corner my date, lean into him, and instruct him (rather too sternly, I thought) to bring me round regularly as I was a very nice girl. Not a subtle bunch, are they? Well, it's good to have backers, inebriated or not.

So that was my nice weekend, which would have been infinitely nicer had it not been marred by J's father and his incredible, bitter attitude. He's been told that he'll only be on the payroll until the end of September. He hasn't said what his plan is, but I know he's still looking for something in the NYC area. I'm feeling less and less cooperative about relocating on his account, and even though I'm having great fun with The Irishman it's not really about that. I've had the chance to work with some higher-ups in my office on a couple of projects, and I think they respect my work and would help me move up if the opportunity arose. Fact is, I have a great job here and there could be a lot more for me professionally than I ever thought. Also, as much as I dislike Chicago, I'm reluctant to go someplace where J's father is my primary support system and I don't know many other people. I mean, I could manage it, like I've managed many other unpleasant and unrewarding situations. I could do it for J's sake, if it were really necessary. But if I don't have to, I don't see why I should.

I don't want to be teetering around alone. I want my good job and my friends. I want my son to see me happy and loving my life. And, at least for now, I want the long-distance-biking, teetotaling Irishman with the biggest personality I've ever experienced. For now.

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