The Makedown (7 page)
“Regardless of whether you’re heavy or not, everyone should stick to solid, basic colors: black, white, gray, beige, and navy. However, given your body type,” Janice says delicately, “white and beige should only be used as accents, understand?”
I nod my head, still reeling with disgrace from my previous thoughts. Janice absorbs my nod, then takes off, pulling dark-colored items off the racks like a sniper. My eyes trained to the floor, I follow Janice’s black flats around the room. I simply cannot handle making eye contact with any of the other patrons. Recognizing their stifled laughter or curiosity over my dated outfit would break me.
“Anna?” Janice asks nicely. “Are you ready?”
I pull my head up slowly, noting we’re in the dressing room. My heart drops to my stomach, landing in a nasty bath of bile. I don’t want to take my clothes off, even if I’m alone in the room. All those mirrors allow me to see what others do when walking behind me.
“I don’t think I can do it. I just, I—”
“Yes, you can. I purposely chose items with some give,” Janice says sternly, handing me the first outfit. Unable to fight her, I agree and enter the dressing room. My eyes stay focused on the dirty gray carpet as I remove my clothes. Not once do I lift my gaze to see my reflection in the mirror. I merely pull on the black, low-waisted trousers, white T-shirts, and plain black sweater. Exiting the room, I hear Janice gasp.
“Yes, now we’re talking,” she says happily.
I look up, gaining encouragement from her voice and turning toward the mirror. I am still fat with bad skin, but I admit, I appear more dignified. “Wow,” I say stupidly.
“It’s a simple trick. Never try to hide the flaw, just dress it better. Even after I started dieting, I had months and months of fat left on me. It became more painful as I started really looking at my body, so I decided if I was going to be fat, I would be well dressed and fat.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say with a grin before something dawns on me: money. I can’t afford these clothes, never mind how much better I look. To the best of my knowledge, Gap doesn’t offer scholarships for the weight-and financially challenged.
“Stop, stop worrying. I’m buying. Consider it a signing bonus.”
“Oh, no . . . I was—” I begin to lie.
“Stop. It was all over your face. Just say thank you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I’ve decided to give Janice and New York another chance.
T
he Janice regime consists of walking everywhere, from the newly gentrified Battery Park to the stuffy Upper East Side in search of spices, organic produce, and occasionally her laundry. Mostly, I contemplate ways to ask Janice for a raise while trudging through the streets in all-black ensembles of trousers, loafers, cotton T-shirts, and cardigans. Shockingly, the job is much easier now that I have appropriate clothes for blending into the monochromatic city. Janice has also introduced me to the mind-blowing line of Spanx tights and body shapers. They make my fat smooth, ironing out the unsightly lumps. I remain an overweight girl, but an improved one. Every day, I roll my eyes as Janice monitors my snacks, insisting that I follow her protein and vegetable regimen. I follow it when I am with her because frankly, it’s easier than handling the guilt she piles on. Janice behaves like a highly involved parent, which is simultaneously comforting and annoying. As long as I can recall, I have been solely responsible for the monstrosity I have made out of my body. It’s a relief to have another name on the deed to my distended ass. On the other hand, I profoundly resent being told what to do by someone who doles out paychecks like an allowance.
My desire to be a self-sufficient grown-up often bumps into Janice’s controlling generosity. She genuinely enjoys having me around as a project, pal, and employee all in one. However, I see another self-serving motive beneath her perfectly microdermabrasioned skin. She needs me. No one else with my education, or even half my education, would do this job for minimum wage. I often picture Janice at home in her apartment in a chic West Village prewar brownstone, translating my salary into Indian rupees. Surely she sleeps better knowing that my salary could support a family of twenty in rural India. It’s not to say that Janice is cheap, because she’s not. She’s supplied me with multiple outfits from the Gap, all her choice, of course, and many accessories. She feeds me healthy foods and unlimited supplies of bottled water, all of which I appreciate. The bottom line is that Janice is a taskmaster who sticks to her ways, even outdated ones, such as paying people minimum wage to toughen them up and suss out their interests. The reality is that my ability to survive at the job has more to do with my cheap rent than anything else.
Feeling virtuous after eating a grilled chicken breast prepared by the health food Nazi, I board the L train with throngs of funky yet successful-looking Brooklynites. Most of them get off the L in Williamsburg, giving me room to regret drinking that last liter of water. Janice constantly pushes water on me, marking a chart every time I finish a bottle. “Do you really need to write down how much water I drink?” I ask in my “you’re so lame” tone of voice.
“You are an investment. I keep track of all my investments. Stocks, bonds, art, and Anna.”
“I feel so—”
“Important?”
“Not exactly,” I respond honestly. “More like com-
modified.”
“Come on, Anna, you’re part of my team now. You reflect on me and I reflect on you. Plus, you’ll be happier. I cry a lot less now that I’m thin,” Janice says with a wink of the eye.
Clearly, she realizes how asinine her “investment” conversation sounds, yet she says it. Part of me thinks I have wandered upon someone as lonely as I am, regardless of the fact that she’s married to some supposedly fantastic guy. She enjoys me, and the focus I bring to her life, a little too much. Janice has found a safe and productive manner in which to channel her control issues. And I have found an FG and mother figure.
My own mother, it should be noted, always elicited a certain rebellion in me. Small things such as calling her the formal “Mother” were intended to irk her, although they didn’t. Numerous times, I pointed out the uselessness of her glasses in front of strangers, but again she paid me no mind. In Janice, I have an involved guardian, one who my rebellions would deeply upset. Therefore, when falling off the wagon, I go to great lengths to cover it up. An estimated two times a week, I indulge my love of junk. Today as I charge up the subway stairs, a strong aroma dazzles my olfactory glands. I breathe out sharply, trying to regain a semblance of composure. Now that I am staying in New York for an extended period, I have made the decision to at least try to be a bit healthier. When I thought I was leaving in two weeks, it was a free-for-all of fried foods, but after the introduction to inexpensive style at the Gap, I’m pushing myself to lighten the burden of self-loathing. It’s much more exhausting to hate myself and my body when my job forces me out in the world on a daily basis.
After hopping up the stairs from the subway, I stop in front of my favorite pizzeria. I have come to know many of the junk food dealers on the street personally, and as I peer through the plate glass window, I spot my man with the mole. He’s the one who adds extra cheese to the pizza. Don’t, I tell myself, picturing how remorseful I will feel after stuffing my face. On the other hand, this is a special occasion; the man with the mole is here. This doesn’t happen every day. It’s better than a sale. And no one passes on their favorite items when they’re on sale, do they? If I don’t eat the mole man’s pizza, I will regret it. Maybe I’ll only eat half the slice. Yes, that is a fabulous compromise. I won’t feel quite as guilty, but I will still get to enjoy mole man’s extra cheese. Of course, I will have to buy the whole slice, since they don’t sell halvsies. “A slice of pepperoni,” I tell the mole man, my mouth dripping with anticipation. “What days are you here?”
“Every day.”
Why did I ask? I felt so much better when I believed this was a special occasion. Well, it’s too late now; he’s already handed me the slice. The tantalizing aroma of pepperoni, crisp cheese, and tangy marinara sauce distracts me. Dazed, I sit on a stool and fold the slice in half, letting the oil drip onto the paper plate. That must save a lot of calories. Buoyed by my calorie-cutting idea, I shove, swallow, and repeat. Drunk on pizza, I immediately order another slice. Once again, I fold the slice in half, drain the oil, shove, swallow, and repeat. When the second slice is done, I feel full.
Hello Fatty,
You are full. Actually, you were full before you even started with the pizza, you fat ass. Stop eating. Stop eating. Stop eating, Fatty!!! Think of FG!! She’ll be so disappointed, you nasty cow.
— Anna
I override my body’s voice and order a third slice. I am now inebriated on fat. I’ve lost the ability to speak. I hit the counter with my fist, nod at mole man, and lay down three dollars. I fold the slice, drain the oil, shove, and swallow. After three slices, my stomach is swollen and painful. I wobble home with thoughts of mutilation and vomit. Ill, mentally and physically, I set my alarm to ensure I have enough time to wash off the pizza smell. The situation is analogous to a cheating man washing away the scent of his mistress before his wife gets home, except not nearly as exciting.
The communal bathroom is empty at 7:00, when I begin my degreasing session. I stand naked except for the shower sandals, massaging my hair and body aggressively, rinsing away any lingering pizza aroma. Seated on the L train, I perform a quick breath check. I worry that a burp or hiccup could ruin everything in a second, exposing my terrible lapse. I immediately decide to keep myself outside a four-foot radius around Janice.
“Hello,” Janice yells out as I enter D&D.
“Hi,” I meekly respond, watching her lay out fruit and black coffee. I look over my list of errands for the day, excited to leave as soon as possible. Janice watches me suspiciously, invisibly shelving her maternal role for that of the food bitch.
“Anna, what did you have for dinner last night?” she asks with studied casualness.
I should have prepared something; I was too preoccupied with the smell factor. “Oh . . . a lot of water . . . and steamed . . . broccoli . . . with rice . . . brown rice,” I stammer.
Janice places a piece of pineapple into her mouth, all the while keeping her eyes trained on me. “How long did you cook the rice?”
“Um . . . I would guesstimate that it was about ten minutes,” I stutter awkwardly. Rice! Why would I choose rice? I’ve never made rice except for Uncle Ben’s, which cooks in the microwave.
“How many cups?”
“Um . . . three.”
“Anna, if you ever get married, don’t cheat. You are a terrible liar.”
Ignoring the true meaning of the comment, I ask, “Do you think I’ll get married?”
“What did you really eat for dinner?”
“Not that I’m obsessed with getting married, because I’m not. I’ve never even bought a wedding magazine before. I was just wondering if you thought I would . . . ,” I trail off timidly.
“Chinese?”
“What? No!”
“Pizza?”
“ Wha—”
“Pizza? Really?”
“Let me explain. I was tired after all the walking—”
“Fat people often struggle with exercise at first,” Janice says directly.
“Janice, please don’t use the
f
word!”
“The fact that you don’t want me to say the word
fat
shows how many issues you have with your fat. But hey, it’s your fat, and if you want to pretend it’s not there, adding to it with pizza, negating all the hard work we’re doing, fine. Go ahead,” Janice says patronizingly. “All I know is that when I was fat, I would have loved to have someone like me to help.”
I don’t have it in me to argue with her; there’s no point. I mainline fruit as quickly as possible, answering with a hunk of pineapple hanging out the left side of my mouth.
“I’m sorry; it will never happen again.”
“Hey, don’t apologize to me. It’s your ass,” Janice replies coolly, adding to the errand list. I can already tell that she’s going to punish me with an extra-strenuous day of walking. I hate her. I loathe her for making me feel bad and I despise myself because she’s right. I hope she chokes on a piece of fruit so I can lecture her on the importance of chewing food properly. Who am I kidding? I have a history of swallowing food whole; I am in no position to discuss the importance of chewing. Somehow, my lack of chewing makes me even more annoyed with Janice, sparking a rebellion.
Two hours later, a lovely yellow cab drops me in front of Janice’s building with grocery bags in hand. My thighs aren’t raw. My heels aren’t aching, and I am back an hour and a half early. Instead of the usual afternoon snack, I am greeted with a curious scowl.
“Drop the bags,” Janice demands harshly.
“What?”
“Turn around and go back to each store and take a picture. My digital camera’s on the desk. And leave your wallet here.”
“Why?”
“I sent you out on walking errands, not cab errands.”
“I paid for the cab myself, if that’s what you are worried about.”
“Anna, for the last time, I am trying to help you. Trust me, the world is a much nicer place without four chins and saddlebags, okay?”
F
ood interrogation has become a regular part of the job, and as a result, I’ve actually lost a little weight. For someone of my girth, fifteen pounds doesn’t translate to much; fewer indentations on my legs after removing my pants is the highlight. Most important, throughout the dietary cross-examinations, my ability to lie has not improved at all. And certainly not for a lack of trying. On nights I’ve been naughty, I toil tirelessly to perfect the cadence of my lie. In bed, I hold a mirror to study my facial expressions as I repeatedly tell the lie. By the end of the night, fatigue lulls me into believing that the fib is plausible. None of it matters, since Janice has a sixth sense with my stomach. I am convinced that Janice has x-ray vision, allowing her to discern the contents of my digestive track. That is the only explanation for her deft ability to tell when I’ve gone astray.
