The Makedown (20 page)
“Babe, it looks delicious, but I can’t. You have it.”
Why is he making this difficult? Men usually don’t need convincing to eat breakfast in bed.
“Oh,” I sigh, “won’t you even taste a little?”
“Babe . . .”
“How about the pancakes?” I say with a long, drawn-out sigh and a pouty expression that feels totally unnatural.
“Babe, really, I can’t.”
“Not even one? I got up at 6:30 to make all this.”
“Okay, I’ll have one pancake,” Ben relents.
“Oh, goodie!”
I watch Ben chew every last bite of the pancake with an intense satisfaction. For the first time in weeks, there is hope for our mismatched relationship.
Breakfast over, Ben throws on a navy suit and yellow tie. I stare longingly at his stomach, dreaming of the day his paunch hangs over his belt.
“What? You don’t like the suit?”
“Oh no, not at all. You look wonderful. Do you have lunch with anyone special today?”
“Nope. I’m going to hit the gym; I need to burn off that pancake.”
“No you don’t,” I squeak. “It’s whole wheat and flaxseed. It’s good for you. You don’t need to go to the gym at all.”
“Babe, I gotta run,” Ben says, leaning down for a kiss.
“Don’t forget, the pancake was healthy. No need to hit the gym,” I call out as the front door slams.
My butter-soaked omelet taunts me as I drop it into the disposal. It requires every ounce of my willpower not to drown my gym concerns in the egg delicacy and supersweetened orange juice. However unjust, I cannot afford any extra calories. I must be the best possible me for Ben. It’s disconcerting that all my work to get Ben to eat the pancake will evaporate after forty-five minutes on the treadmill. I throw away the remaining food and pick up the phone to dial Janice.
“D&D Catering.”
“I’m going to be late today.”
“Why?”
“I just need some time. I’m taking on a new endeavor. Something very important . . . close to my heart.”
“I can’t believe it! You’re quitting on me!” Janice huffs.
“Um . . . no. It’s a little bit more complicated than that. And it has nothing to do with you.”
“I don’t believe you. Do you have a job interview? Because let me tell you—”
“Janice! This has nothing to do with you! If you must know, it’s about Ben! I’m trying to fatten him up, not a massive amount, but enough so women stop staring at him.”
“You have got to be kidding me. You land this insanely hot guy and you want to make him fat?”
“You have no idea how difficult it is to date a man this good looking— the pressure. There are women at every corner— winking, whistling, smiling, bending over, occasionally making pornographic gestures— it’s too much! You have no idea how lucky you are that Gary isn’t hot!”
“He will be thrilled to hear that,” Janice says with a laugh.
“Oh, Janice. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I assume you aren’t telling Ben about this plan.”
“Well, I don’t think it would work if I did,” I answer seriously. “I think he’d get mad.”
“I say start with donuts. Everyone loves donuts.”
“He’ll just do more time at the gym. He’s addicted to burning calories. Why did I choose a fitness freak?”
“Cancel the membership and call it a day. And get in here by eleven. I need help frosting these damn cupcakes.”
Canceling his gym membership is a Band-Aid, not a solution, but I need to start somewhere. It’s a slow build to twenty pounds.
I realize my behavior falls in the morally questionable category, but Ben is simply too handsome. It’s unfair to expect anyone, let alone someone with my history, to survive on his arm without a few adjustments. It sounds much worse than it is because twenty pounds will do very little to Ben. Even with the added weight, he will still be almost perfect. And that’s more than most people can dream of being. If I could distribute his riches to the ugly and average people of the world, I would be a regular Robin Hood. Until then I will settle for “concerned girlfriend,” nobly protecting my man. Okay, maybe “slightly selfish girlfriend” is more accurate.
“Hello, I’d like to cancel my gym membership please,” I say in my best male impersonation.
“Name?”
“Ben Reynolds.”
“May I ask why? Our records show that your last check-in was yesterday. Was there a problem, Mr. Reynolds?”
“It has come to my attention that a drugged-out derelict has been using my membership for the last few months while I was in China. This man has been . . . well, pleasuring himself in the locker room, or so I have been told. Needless to say, I don’t feel comfortable returning to the gym.”
I feel guilty, mainly because I know how annoying it is to deal with small tasks like reinstating gym memberships. However, this is a necessary annoyance. Really, it is. This is a justified course of action for a man so striking in appearance. This is not, as I fear, a sign of following in Mother’s disturbed footsteps. I am not starting down a path that ends in madness and spewing racial indignities. I am absolutely nothing like Mother . . . not a thing.
At 10:45, I roll into work with a sense of deranged accomplishment. Janice hovers over a steaming pot, her hair perfectly pulled back in a ponytail. Small beads of perspiration decorate her face, yet she still looks chic.
“Well, if it isn’t Lucy Ricardo,” Janice says without looking up.
“Excuse me?”
“The queen of harebrained schemes.”
Lucy Ricardo is the highest of praise compared to what I was thinking about myself. Nothing is more insulting than believing that I am continuing Mother’s legacy of lunacy.
“Oh, Ethel. I wouldn’t be so judgmental. You were the one who called every restaurant on my block and threatened them not to deliver to me.”
“Yes, but that was for your own good.”
“This is for Ben’s own good as well. I make him happy, and this way I will be able to keep him.”
“Isn’t it easier to let him just dump you?”
“I love him, Janice; it’s too late to get out. I can’t start over after being with Ben. Besides, he really could use some help empathizing with the average mortal.”
“Well, I guess he is rather confident about his looks.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I shoot back, suddenly protective of my Ben.
“He knows he’s hot. It’s not his fault; he is damn attractive. A few extra pounds actually may help him understand how the rest of us live.”
“Exactly,” I exclaim, relieved.
“This is a cultural experience for him,” Janice giggles. “I’m sure it’s all very anthropological. May I ask how you plan on doing this?”
“So far I’m lying about low-fat cheese and stuff.”
“He’s got good genes; you’re going to have to get more creative if you want results. It’s not as easy as you think to get an active guy like Ben to gain weight.”
“What’s the best way to gain weight?”
“I can’t believe you of all people are asking this. What was your favorite thing when you were fat?”
“I liked anything with sugar in it.”
“There you go. But Anna, be careful. If you get caught, there will be no explaining this away.”
Janice is right; I need to step it up if Ben is to gain weight. Pancakes and risotto are too filling for him; his food must be light yet packed with calories. I need . . . candy bars. They may be billed as snacks, but they have more calories than a proper meal. A few of my favorites growing up were Milky Way, Snickers, Skor, and Twix. Of all the bars, I think Skor was the most delicious and addictive. I must create a scenario in which Ben eats multiple bars a day. Perhaps I can find a way to disguise it as a healthy alternative. I can’t say for sure, but I believe Nature’s Way grains and honey bars are approximately the same size as a Skor bar. The prospect of dismantling my fear of losing Ben excites me, yet I can’t seem to shake this feeling of profound lameness. Switching candy bars and granola bars in an effort to make Ben gain weight really is something that Lucy Ricardo would do. The only difference is that Ricky wouldn’t leave her if he found out.
I employ extreme vigilance when switching the Skor and Nature’s Way wrappers. I begin by sharpening the tip of a needle against the bathroom tile grout. Then, I slice a nearly imperceptible opening into the crease of the Nature’s Way wrapper. I attempt to place the Skor in the wrapper, only to realize it’s slightly larger than Nature’s Way. Damn it! I do not want to go back to the store and start again. I grab my most precise kitchen knife and slice a little off each end of the Skor. After lightly gluing the wrapper back together, I inspect the final product. The craftsmanship is extremely impressive.
After laboriously shaving and repackaging all twenty Skor bars, I am exhausted. I lick up the chocolate shavings from the counter as a treat. The chocolate. The toffee. It’s mind-blowing. I want more. Who cares about being fat? I must eat Skor bars every day, all day long. I must move away from the counter. I need more. No! I grab the sponge and wipe up the chocolate shavings before my tongue does. I can’t be a casual user of candy bars. As much as I would like to, it’s not possible for me. I fan out the Nature’s Way bars on the counter, salivating at the notion of devouring them all.
“What are you doing? Babe? Babe? Anna, I’m talking to you.”
“What?” I say, coming out of my chocolate-induced fog, having completely missed hearing Ben enter the apartment.
“What are you doing?” Ben asks seriously.
“What do you mean? I’m . . . standing here . . . in the kitchen.”
“You’re drooling. There’s drool all down your chin.”
“Oh really? How strange. Maybe it’s an allergic reaction?”
“To what?”
“To these delicious bars I bought today. I guess you’ll have to eat them then.
All of them.
”
“I don’t want to eat them if they make you drool.”
“No, they won’t. It’s just me. I’m allergic to the . . . nature . . . that’s in them.”
“The nature?”
“Yeah, you know they’re called Nature’s Way bars because they’re so healthy.”
“Okay, but nature isn’t an ingredient, Anna.”
“Oh, yeah. I know. I was kidding. What I meant was I am allergic to”—I pause, picking up the bar and examining the wrapper— “barley, which comes from nature. These are really good for you, so eat them all.”
Yet again, I have proven to be an appalling liar. Ben rips open a bar and takes a small bite. I watch nervously, wondering if he will recognize the Skor bar.
“Wow, this doesn’t taste like”— Ben pauses while picking up the wrapper— “oat bran. It’s really good.”
“It’s crazy the things they are coming up with these days,” I say with relief.
“Yeah, I’m going to take some of these to the office. Thanks, babe.”
“No, thank you,” and I truly mean that.
“Babe, you want to go see the new Jessica Biel movie?”
“You actually want to see that? It looks like shit.”
“Who cares? She’s hot.”
“Here, have another Nature’s Way.”
D
on’t forget, we have dinner with Maria tonight,” Ben says seconds after dropping his briefcase by the front door after work.
“Who?” I ask, lounging across the cream-colored couch.
“I told you about Maria. We went to Brown together. She’s from Argentina.”
“Um, no. You didn’t mention this at all. No notice whatsoever. Look at my hair, Ben. Does this look like hair that is date-ready?” I screech while frantically sitting up.
“Calm down. It’s not a date; it’s dinner with an old friend.”
Old friend? Yeah right.
“Can’t we reschedule?” I ask, hoping this can be pushed to after Ben’s weight gain.
“She lives in L.A.; she’s only here for two nights. We should leave here in an hour.”
An hour? That is barely enough time for a beautiful woman to prepare to meet an old friend, let alone an average one.
“What does Maria do?” Please say welder, professional wrestler, or fish gutter.
“She’s a philanthropist.”
“Is that a job?”
“It is when you have as much money as she does.”
“Is she married?”
Please say yes.
“She was single last we spoke. Her ex was a real bitch.”
“He was a bitch?” I repeat back to Ben with confusion.
“She. Maria’s a lesbian, babe. I’m sure I’ve told you about her.”
Knowing she’s not on the team that is trying to steal Ben from me calms me down immensely, and I quickly slip into something more appropriate to meet an old college friend of Ben’s: black top, black pants, black shoes. Good to go.
Maria is Penelope Cruz with a masculine flair. Her black pantsuit is perfectly tailored to fit her slim five-foot-nine-inch frame. And her black ballerina flats have that distinctive Christian Louboutin red sole. Maria is a woman cut from the same monochromatic cloth as me; we are both dressed in head-to-toe black, although she probably hasn’t cut Gap labels out of her outfit. She speaks English fluently, albeit with a thick, sexy accent. Her emotive facial expressions and wild hand gestures make her feel more like a caricature on a sitcom than an actual person; for example, her incessant use of the word
darling
. She’s the Argentinean Zsa Zsa Gabor.
“Anna, darling, do you prefer red or white?” Maria asks me across the table at Babbo, located in a beautiful blue townhouse on Waverly Place.
“White, please,” I say shyly, feeling like a child at the grown-ups’ table.
“Ben, darling, order white because that’s what we girls want!” Maria touches his arm and throws back her head to laugh. If she were straight, my heart would be in my throat and my stomach on the floor. But she’s gay, so I love her!
A young blonde waitress approaches and immediately locks on to Ben.
“We would like a bottle of the Friesen 1996,” Ben tells the waitress with a smile.
As the waitress leaves, Maria leans into Ben. “I see you still have the same effect on women, Ben darling.”
Thank God for Maria. Finally, someone acknowledges the torture I endure daily.
“What are you talking about?”
“Darling, the waitress was trying to fuck [pronounced
fohk
] you with her eyes.”
“Stop it. She was just taking our order.”
