The Makedown (10 page)
“No, you haven’t told me who you’re dating. If it’s not Jesus—”
“It’s . . . Allah. I’m looking into being one of his seventy-two virgins.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s nothing. I went on a date with a guy who works at my dermatologist’s office and, well, I don’t think he liked me.”
“And he wants you to join this group of virgins?”
“Yup,” I say, figuring it’s easier to agree than explain.
“Sounds like a real freak,” Mother says, slowly digesting the information.
“Don’t worry, I’ll stay away from him from now on. I’ve got to go.”
Janice has a slightly different take on it.
“That freak is dead!”
“Janice, please don’t do anything rash. I have to go in there every month for blood tests,” I beg the following morning over a pan of sautéing onions.
“Oh, he will not be there this afternoon, let alone in a month. Who the fuck does he think he is not fucking you?” Janice says. “He’s a fucking male nurse at a zit clinic.”
“Oh, Janice, please,” I say, disregarding the smoke wafting up from the frying pan.
“Please what? He didn’t even have the decency to fuck you and pretend he’ll call. That’s what grown-ups do. None of this teenage dry-humping crap!” Janice hollers, phone in hand.
Sensing the intensity of the moment, I turn off the now-ruined onions and head for the bathroom. By the time I return, Martin has been fired for asking a patient out on a date. I feel a little guilty but extremely relieved that I don’t have to find a new dermatologist. “Thanks,” I mumble to Janice.
“The important thing is that you stay on track. Get rid of the acne, then we can handle the moustache.”
“Um, what are you talking about? A moustache?”
“What, you thought it was a shadow?”
I slide my finger across my sweaty upper lip and sure enough, I feel some fuzz. Great, another thing to be embarrassed about.
“I don’t want to have a moustache,” I gripe.
“Be patient. First acne, then waxing.”
T
he longer I wait to wax, the more obsessed I become with the thick hairs on my upper lip and, sadly, other parts of my body as well. Even so, the idea of smearing hot wax on my skin, placing a thin cotton cloth on top of it, and ripping each hair from its root seems downright masochistic. It is a necessary evil, however, if I want to improve my image, and I haven’t come this far to shirk a little pain. I have chosen to use the services of a frosty Russian woman named Anyas. She breathes heavily and squints while spreading wax around my upper lip. She is a hardened woman, crushed by both communism and its aftermath. From the stern nature of her expression, one would think the iron curtain actually fell on top of her. While frightened by her face, I am more terrified that she will pull off all my skin with the cloth.
“Um, is this going to hurt?” I ask meekly.
“No. No, pain at all,” Anyas says very matter-of-
factly.
“Really?” I say with relief. It sounds too good to be true, but surely she learned in the gulag that liars would be punished.
She rips the cloth back, pulling my long brown hairs out at the roots.
“Ow,” I whimper.
“Quiet. Whining no help,” she orders.
Spoken like a true communist. Stalin would be so proud.
Anyas yanks the last hair out of my upper lip and in doing so officially ends my makeover. I am legitimately average in appearance, maybe even a little better than average. My eyelashes appear longer without the acne and moustache, and my eyes even appear— dare I say it— attractive!
However fabulous my eyes and lashes may be, they can’t blind me to the pain of New York City night life. Standing freshly groomed in front of Stanton Social, I am painfully uncomfortable in my skin. I wish I smoked. At least then I would have something to do with my arms while I wait for Janice. Why did I agree to meet her at such a place? I can’t bear mingling with the sophisticates and models who watch me, wondering what bridge or tunnel I had to crawl through to get here. Oh, I hate them. Die, pretty people, die. And yes, I realize that no one is technically staring at me, but I’m sure they are discreetly judging me. It’s simply too much; I pull out my phone to call Janice to tell her that I am leaving.
“Anna?” a voice comes from behind me. It’s Janice. I hang up the phone without saying a word.
“You weren’t calling to cancel, were you?”
How does she know that?
“No,” I lie, “I was calling . . . a friend.”
“Did you call Moviefone and have a pretend conversation?”
“Jesus Janice, no!” Although that is an excellent idea, and I will definitely be using it in the future.
“Don’t act so shocked. It’s not like that would be out of character for you.”
“Fair enough.”
Admittedly, I am quite peculiar. I may have lost weight, acne, and unwanted hair, but once a weirdo, always a weirdo.
Trailing behind Janice, I mount the stairs to Stanton Social’s lounge. It’s a typical chic bar with rice paper panels and mirrors hanging above the low-to-the-ground couches. I am waiting for someone to open a bar whose theme is total darkness, creating an even playing field.
“Somewhere in here is a man you are going to have sex with,” Janice mutters.
“What?” I screech, terrified.
“C’mon, you deserve it. We are celebrating the new you!” Janice beams like a proud mother after her daughter’s cheerleading championship.
“Um, I’m not sure about that, Janice. Let’s just have drinks,” I say with the confidence of a snail in a saltshaker. We would have better luck finding me a companion at Blockbuster. Men who rent movies alone on a Saturday night are a totally untapped market.
“Absolutely not. You need to christen your new body. It’s either some guy here, or I take you home to make Gary do the honors.”
“Eww.”
“What? I didn’t say I wanted to watch,” Janice dryly announces while scoping the room. “There are some good-looking men here tonight.”
Looking away from Janice, I furtively scan the room. All the faces and bodies look the same. My eyes rest on the back of a man in jeans and an old Springsteen T-shirt. This is the best-looking man, from behind, that I have ever seen. His butt has literally taken my breath away. My best estimate is that he’s over six feet tall, although it’s hard to tell from my seat on the painfully low couch. I can’t see his face, but watching his tan arm extend to grab a drink is almost more than I can handle. His posture and ease in this crowded venue tell me he’s handsome. A man’s appearance can be deciphered from his stance and mannerisms; an attractive man walks, stands, and moves differently than a man with a cleft palate. If only he could turn out to be a terrible beast, then I’d have a shot with him.
“Who are you staring at? You look like you’re retarded,” Janice says harshly, following my gaze, just as the man turns around.
He’s gorgeous. He’s sexy. He’s perfect, except for the tall blonde woman leaving the bar with him.
“Sweetie, we need to have a conversation about something known as
your league
. That guy is
not
in
your league
. Understanding your league is essential for—”
“I was only window-shopping,” I say defensively.
“Manageable expectations are the crucial companion to a successful makeover. Just because your ass isn’t muffin-topping out of your pants doesn’t mean you get to bed George Clooney.”
“Okay, I get it,” I moan with obvious annoyance.
Janice ignores me, inspecting the tables around us.
“We’ve got a live one to your left,” she says in her best spy voice.
I slowly turn to my left, feigning casualness as best I can.
“Keep going . . . striped shirt.”
I filter through the people until I arrive on . . . the child in the striped shirt.
“He’s in junior high,” I respond.
“So you’ll buy the drinks. It’s a one-night stand, Anna. You don’t have to marry him. Give him a second; he may grow on you. I’m going to the bathroom.” Janice stands and performs a conspicuous head tilt, giving Junior High the go-ahead. I raise my vodka tonic to my mouth and sip slowly.
“Hey,” Junior High says with a smirk.
I want to ask if his mom forgot to give him lunch money.
“Can I sit down?”
“Um, well, my friend is coming back soon. She’s quick in the bathroom. Sometimes she doesn’t even wash her hands.”
It’s not that I think Junior High isn’t good enough for me, I honestly have no idea how to interact with the opposite sex.
“I think your friend is making a hasty exit.”
Janice blows me a kiss while heading for the stairs. Shitty Fairy Godmother! If I had a glass slipper, I would throw it at her head.
“Um, I guess she is,” I stutter.
“Can I get you another drink?”
My fear of contributing to the delinquency of a minor evaporates after vodka number three. Alcohol is the reason there are six billion people on the planet; it allows strangers to get naked without hesitation. For the record, this child is a graduate student at Columbia University. Of course, to me he’ll always be Junior High, the first guy to have sex with my new body. I’m not sure if the feeling that I am a pedophile keeps me from enjoying myself or whether I just haven’t yet gotten the hang of sex without blubber. Still, it isn’t the worst experience in the world, and to be honest I need the practice.
P
lease, let’s take the elevator just this once,” I complain in the lobby of an exclusive apartment building on Spring Street in SoHo.
Dressed in my now-obligatory head-to-toe black, I scrunch my eyebrows together pathetically, hoping to evoke sympathy from Janice.
“Absolutely not. This is maintenance. If you start taking elevators, you might as well start eating donuts again,” Janice replies firmly.
“Fine, no elevator,” I sigh as I place my black ballet flat on the first of several hundred stairs. The fact that Janice is right doesn’t make climbing five flights of stairs any easier. However, I am thrilled to report that I can actually climb five flights of stairs without becoming winded. A little perspiration behind my kneecaps is the worst of it.
As we approach the client’s door, Janice and I both perform a quick check to make sure we are presentable. We wipe invisible lint off each other, plaster huge smiles on our faces, and ring the bell. Seconds pass before the front door slowly creaks open. My eyelids flutter, unsure at first what they are looking at. I swallow a massive quantity of air and wonder if delirium is a previously unexperienced by-product of enforced stair climbing. It’s statistically impossible; there are millions of people living in Manhattan. The odds must be one in two million of running into him.
But it’s him. He’s in the same Born in the USA shirt and he’s even dreamier up close than across a crowded bar. Moreover, he’s much better looking without that blonde whore on his arm. Seeing his lean six-foot-one body, hazel eyes, and thick mane of black hair up close is almost too much for me. He’s absolutely dreamy. Okay fine, his nose is imperceptibly crooked, yet somehow this only adds to his overall perfection.
“Hi, I’m Janice Delviddio from D&D Catering, and this is my associate, Anna Norton.”
Both Janice and Mr. Perfect turn to me, expecting me to say something resembling hello. Unfortunately, I can’t speak. My trance is in full effect— mouth open and eyes glazed. I try to make myself say something, but I am physically incapable of making a sound. Maybe it’s best, as I would probably grunt or scream inappropriate sexual comments about his body. I only wish I could see him from behind again.
“I’m Ben Reynolds. Please come in.”
Ben Reynolds. Ben Reynolds. Ben Reynolds. Even his name has that inherent cool feeling, like “Jake Ryan” in
Sixteen Candles.
As I cross the threshold into his spacious one-bedroom apartment, my eyes lock on Ben’s butt— that same wonderful butt that caught my eye a couple weeks ago. Swooning, I follow Janice and Ben into the apartment.
“You look great from behind,” I mutter. Oh God, no! I said that aloud. My cheeks burn with embarrassment; never has a blush hurt quite so much. What a time for my vocal cords to kick back into action.
Janice looks at me with irritation before bursting into laughter. Ben follows suit with the perfect laugh; yes, I am already drunk on the Ben Kool-Aid.
“That’s not what I meant. I meant to say that . . . some people’s backs don’t complement the front . . . side of their body . . . as naturally as yours does. Really a good fit. And that is all I meant when I said you look . . . great from behind . . . ,” I trail off quietly, dying of humiliation. This is not the romantic introduction I was hoping to one day tell the
New York Times.
“No need to explain,” Ben says with a smirk. “I appreciate a woman with a sense of humor. Please sit.”
He even knows how to diffuse mortifying interactions. The man is a god.
The three of us sit down at Ben’s modern Swedish dining room table. I compose myself, but Ben once again unhinges me, this time in the form of a large black-and-white photo. He is shirtless on a sailboat. How can I concentrate with his chest, a rippling mass of perfection, taunting me? He has a thin layer of hair on his chest, which I find sexy in a 1970s Burt Reynolds kind of way. Ben watches me drool over his picture, wondering no doubt if he needs to alert the police to the presence of a stalker.
“That was taken last summer off the coast of Greece,” Ben says smoothly to me.
“Gary and I honeymooned in Greece. It was gorgeous,” Janice adds, speaking like a normal human being.
“I’m not married, so I’ve never been on a honeymoon. Ben, have you ever been on a honeymoon?”
It is official: I have social dyslexia. I cannot properly determine appropriate and inappropriate behavior. If God were fair, he would endow me with a special skill to compensate for my complete lack of social intelligence. Perhaps he could make me a witch like Samantha Stephens or a genie like Jeannie (do genies have last names?).
“No, I am not married,” Ben says with a reassuring grin.
“Neither am I,” I say dreamily. There may actually be stars floating out of my eyes or hearts swarming around my head.
