The Makedown (26 page)
“I was wrong. I feel like I’m making out with my exfoliator every night.”
“I didn’t know you found me so disgusting,” Ben says with a huff as he enters the closet. “Where are my damn Façonnable shirts?”
“Oh, those. I actually gave them to Goodwill.”
“You gave them to Goodwill? After I specifically told you not to get rid of anything I still wear? What is wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry. I was trying to be charitable. I guess I got carried away thinking of how much the homeless people would enjoy wearing cozy flannel. I’m sorry. I’m also sorry for the semen comment. I just don’t like the beard anymore. It hurts.”
“The only reason I grew the stupid thing was for you,” Ben says gruffly. “I’ll shave it. Why don’t you order some pizza while I do it?”
I want to say no more pizza! But I stop myself. It will be too much for him. I need to ease him into the plan, and today was clothing and beard. Tomorrow I start with food and exercise. Somehow, I know diet and training are going to be much harder than getting him to shave his beard and forget about some clothes donated to Goodwill.
“Oh, and get me two sides of ranch dressing so I can dip my pizza.”
“Sure.” I remember hiding in the bathtub shoveling Doritos into my mouth after being told to lose weight. I do not want to inflict such emotional duress on Ben. Compassion was all I wanted, so that is what I offer Ben.
“And some Cokes. Regular ones. None of that diet crap.”
Why is he making this so hard? Next thing I know, he’ll order a side of deep-fried lard. The diet starts tomorrow, so tonight it’s judgment-free calories.
B
en’s whiney voice wakes me; I tuck my head under the blanket to ignore him, but he continues to talk in that annoying tone.
“What happened to these pants?” Ben moans.
“Hmm . . . what are you . . . talking about?” I mumble with my eyes shut.
“I can’t believe this; it’s like I gained weight overnight.”
I crack open my left eye and see Ben bursting out of his thirty four-inch-waist black Prada pants.
“Maybe you’ve gained weight. Your other slacks have been looking tighter than usual.”
“I wore these slacks last week, and they fit me great. How is this possible?”
“Babe, maybe all the pizza, and ranch dressing, and Cokes, and ice cream and stuff.”
“Well, what am I supposed to wear today?”
“Wear the gray suit; it has some extra room. Why don’t we start a diet? And an exercise plan? Together?”
“Where are my damn gray slacks? Did you give those away, too?”
“No Ben, I didn’t. Now about what—”
“None of this would be a problem if I had my Façonnable shirts. They made everything look cool, even tight slacks.”
Oh, you poor, deluded soul. I am clearly more powerful than I thought.
“Ben, babe. You know how sexy I think you are in everything, including flannel, but it’s too cutting-edge for corporate America.”
“I like being cutting-edge.”
It’s as if he’s forcing me to come out and say it.
“People thought you looked like a lumberjack or a miner or something very unlawyer-y.”
“What people? Who said that?”
“Um, um . . . Mrs. Kranski across the hall.”
“Please, she can’t even see past her own nose.”
“Dr. Addison in 1A mentioned something about you being a Nirvana fan because of the flannel and all. And that old man with the younger wife asked me whether you’re Scottish.”
“Great, this whole damn building is against me, and I have nothing to wear!”
“Babe, wear one of your Armani shirts with the gray slacks. They’re not too tight. We’ll start the diet and exercise plan today. We’ll do it together.”
“Fine. Whatever. I got to go.”
I take Ben’s “Fine. Whatever” as a definitive yes. I dispose of all fattening and calorie-laden foods and leftovers. The refrigerator’s drawers contain ketchup packets, sauces, and other condiments sent along with delivery food. It’s astounding that The Makedown took on such a life of its own. Does that mean I am not to blame for the intense results? I long to separate what I intended from what actually occurred. I anticipated a mild adjustment, not a drastic, personality-altering experiment. Ben regressed emotionally during the great inhalation of cheese, grease, and fried potato products. However, that is all about to reverse itself. Ben’s transition to green vegetables, tofu, and brown rice will undoubtedly affect me as well. I’m already careful about what I eat, but I have never been this strict. For snacks, I buy carrot and celery sticks, dried fruit, and plain rice cakes. As he starts to lose weight, granola bars will be given as rewards. Everyone needs a little treat,
little
being the crucial word. I cannot be careless in the eradication of Ben’s problems. This must be a calculated and measured attack.
It’s almost 7:30 p.m., and Ben will be home soon. I know what I have to do. I think Olivia Newton-John said it best: let’s get physical! Good-bye jeans and form-fitting sweater, hello black sports bra, thin fleece shirt, and spandex running pants. I look semiridiculous, but this is the ideal outfit for power walking or running. I must prepare mentally to lure Ben into my exercise regime. I need the energy of a meth-head cheerleader after her team wins the homecoming game. This isn’t as simple as concentration and psyching myself up. I need a boost. Nothing illegal or Barry Bonds-ish, just some old-school inspiration from the
Footloose
and
Flashdance
soundtracks.
I bounce from foot to foot with memories of Ren dancing in an abandoned warehouse. It was Kevin Bacon’s finest hour, not to mention his car stereo’s; the 1984 yellow bug blasted music throughout the entire warehouse. Pretty impressive. As I prepare to find
Flashdance
on my iPod, the front door jiggles with the familiar sound of Ben’s key. I place the iPod on the table and stand with my feet a foot apart and my hands on my hips. “Give me a
B
,” I shout, pumping my left arm into the air. “Give me an
E
.” I pump my right arm into the air, and finally, “give me an
N
. . . BEN!” I scream while jumping up and down.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I’m getting ready to take a walk. Get those endorphins going. I am so psyched about how good I am about to feel,” I squeal. “Go get dressed, I’ll wait here.”
“Babe, stop bouncing. You’re making me seasick.”
“You know what will help? A nice long walk,” I say with a megawatt smile to seal the deal.
“No,
Law & Order
is about to start.”
“Hon,
Law & Order
is
always
about to start. Besides, we have TiVo. Come on; let’s walk to the corner and back!”
“I’m not in the mood for exercise. I had a hard day at the office.”
“Fine,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment, “but promise me we’ll walk tomorrow morning?”
Ben nods his head while yawning.
“What happened at the office?”
“Nothing.”
“You seem upset. Are you having trouble with a client?”
Ben shakes his head, indicating no.
“With colleagues?”
“It’s nothing.”
Maybe I’m imagining it, but I have a hunch that Ben is being picked on at work. There must be some terrible bullies at his firm. I have half a mind to go down there and tell them off. Or perhaps a little conference with their wives? Although, somehow I think the kind of women who marry testosterone-heavy lawyers are not good for me to be around. They could potentially rekindle a high school – worthy bout of self-loathing with their perfect hair, tight bodies, and tennis bracelets. Ben watches me with a naughty grin as he unbuttons his shirt.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“You know, you’re right. I could use some exercise.”
“Great, I’ll get your shoes.”
“In the bedroom, that is,” Ben says in his best Barry White impersonation.
“Oh, that’s not a bad idea,” I say, wondering how many calories sex can burn. It certainly couldn’t hurt. I jump into his arms, hoping he will carry me into the bedroom, burning additional calories.
“Anna, did you hurt your ankle jumping around?”
“Uh, yeah. Can you carry me?”
“Grab my arm and hop?”
“Thanks,” I sigh.
I will have to work him harder in the sack.
I kiss Ben’s arms slowly while seductively stretching them, pushing them back, and holding them for ten seconds before releasing. I am simultaneously burning calories and building muscle. Does it get any better? I distract Ben from the stretching with kisses, finger licks, and cat purrs. After his arms, I kiss Ben’s lumpy stomach, looking up every few seconds to hum seductively. I want to pull Ben up by the neck, forcing him to perform the dreaded sit-up. There isn’t a purr loud enough to get that one under the radar. I move slowly down his torso, annoyingly bypassing the penis region in favor of his legs. I grab his left calf and slowly start to push it into a crunch. I look up in time to see Ben’s face crinkle with confusion. Passing the penis region was a mistake; I overlooked the plethora of distraction the sensitive area offers. The blow job and alternating leg crunches are a package deal. No legs, no blow job.
“What are you doing to my legs?”
“Oh, um, that must be some sort of involuntary reaction.”
“You’ve never done it before while—”
“Clearly it’s a new involuntary reaction.”
“A new one? I don’t think—”
“Do you want to talk about this or have sex? Any more talking, and I may be over the whole intercourse thing altogether.”
Ben smiles at my nonsensical rant before kissing me. Thoughts of crunches flee my mind as his hand strokes my back. He forcefully grabs my hair. I thrive on the sensation that Ben is once again in control. This is the old Ben, confident and self-assured. I am buoyed by this sensation; I want more. Bring on the fierceness and tenacity of the Ben I first saw across the room at Stanton Social. Ben lowers me to the bed, and with it, the small flame of change extinguishes.
Instead of savage thrusts, Ben offers tender waves. His soft and kind nature exacerbates my frustration. I don’t deserve kindness after what I have done. With each moment, my guilt increases exponentially, suffocating any possibility of rational thought. I must take action. I cannot live under this veil of culpability. I grab his butt cheeks, forcefully plunging him into a more aggressive movement. Surely this is a better workout than his mild motions. The stronger the action, the more calories he burns. If I keep him going at this speed, it will be very beneficial to RMFAB. I am not just his lover but also his trainer and as such, I begin counting . . . out loud.
“One, two, three, four, five, and one, two, three—”
Ben stops.
“Come on Ben, give me two more.”
“Anna, why are you counting?”
I snap back to reality.
“I . . . um, guess . . . it’s time I tell you . . . I love you.”
“Babe, I already know you love me. Why are you counting?”
“I was counting down to when I was going to ask . . . to go on top. Sometimes I’m a bit shy about asking.”
“I’m all yours,” Ben says while rolling off. “I was getting tired anyway.”
For heaven’s sake, he hasn’t even finished two sets. I climb atop him, looking into his eyes and remembering that beyond anything I’ve done or he’s done, I truly love him. All thoughts of RMFAB evaporate as I heed passion. I love him so much my eyes well up with tears, like a total loser. Women who cry during sex are the worst. Unless an internal organ is punctured or a limb severed, there are no tears in bed. I quickly wipe my eyes, hoping Ben doesn’t notice, but no such luck.
“I love you, too,” Ben says as his voice cracks with emotion and tears.
I have turned my boyfriend into a babbling, emotional pansy of a man. I might as well be in bed with Harvey Fierstein.
For Ben to cry during sex, and before his orgasm no less, means only one thing. The Makedown was far more destructive than I previously assessed. The physical deterioration lulled him into a depressed state in which he is awash in apathy. What happened to the man who made fun of the fatty in front of the Washington Monument? I never thought I would miss that callous side of Ben’s personality, but I do. I need to get him back into shape before he gets diabetes for his fortieth birthday and a stroke for his fiftieth. I must stop Ben’s downward spiral and execute RMFAB, by any means necessary.
R
MFAB dictates that Ben walk three times a week, and I intend to adhere to that. I brush my teeth with vigor, hardly able to contain the nervous anxiety burning within me. I lean over Ben with minty-fresh breath and shake him awake like a warden does a convict.
“Stop. What are you doing?”
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead. It’s time for our walk.” I grin manically in his groggy face.
“Please, stop.”
“Mr. Grumpy, you will feel much better once you get those endorphins going. I’ve only walked to the kitchen, and already I’m buzzing!” I urge.
“Fine,” Ben says, sitting up slowly.
I grab his arms and raise him to a standing position. He waddles into the closet to get dressed. I hit the kitchen, wipe down the counters, drink a small glass of room-temperature water, and finally return to the bedroom. Standing in the doorway to the bedroom, there is no sight or sound of Ben.
“Ben?”
Total silence. I walk to the closet, slowly opening the door. I am afraid of what I might find. Oh, it’s worse than I thought. Ben is in the fetal position on the floor. He has compacted himself tightly with his arms around his knees. I want to thrust my leg into his gut, forcing him awake, but instead I strongly stroke his arm.
“Wake up! No more sleeping!”
“Five more minutes.”
“No Ben, you need to get up.”
“Please, Anna, five more minutes. I promise I’ll get up then.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, five more minutes.”
“Fine.” I glance at my watch, noting it’s 6:12.
Irritation overpowers me. Gone is the faint desire to crawl back into bed and leave my sloth of a boyfriend to sleep. I pace the living room, compulsively checking my watch while fantasizing about dropping a bucket of frigid ice water on Ben’s head. This isn’t merely about me; he needs this. I’m saving him. RMFAB is saving him. I look back at my watch; it’s 6:14. That’s long enough. Ben can’t tell how long I have been gone. I lean over him, seething with frustration.
