The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

  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.

  Chapter Thirty

  RMFAB 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 gr
in 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.

  “Ben, get up!”

  “Babe, I can’t. My stomach hurts. I need to sleep it off.”

  “You need to sleep off a stomachache?”

  “Sometimes when I get up too early I get a stomachache. Sleep is the only thing that can cure it.”

  “Walking can cure it better. I read that in the New England Journal of Medicine. Get up!”

  “No,” Ben whines, “I need to sleep. Please, woman, let me sleep!”

  “Fine!” I relent. “I’m packing tofu stir-fry for lunch. You better eat it!”

  “Okay. Can I go back to sleep now?”

  I turn and leave my boyfriend in a ball on the floor of the closet. I angrily toss tofu and vegetables into Tupperware, badmouthing Ben silently the whole time. Frustration overcomes me; I want RMFAB to be over as soon as possible. Why does Ben make it so hard? I never dreamed a short walk would conjure such resistance from him. I push the Tupperware to the bottom of the brown paper sack, wishing there were a way to monitor Ben’s lunches. Confirmation that he’s eating them would greatly settle my nerves. My fingertips quake with aggravation as I write Ben’s name in Sharpie on the bag.

  It’s hard to believe that I had sex last night, although I didn’t have an orgasm due to the crying fiasco. Nothing quiets an impending orgasm more than your boyfriend weeping like he’s a seventh-grade girl at a Justin Timberlake concert.

  By the following morning, I have anxiety-induced energy to get RMFAB on track. I wait impatiently in bed, listening to the clock tick from 6:00 to 6:01. I have already changed into my spandex running ensemble, tennis shoes included. I yearn to squeeze Ben’s testicles, forcing him to wake up and get into his Nikes, but I don’t. After yesterday, I am determined to wait until the wholly reasonable hour of 7:00 to rouse Ben. To waste time, I switch off staring at Ben’s face and the clock. At 6:47, my eyes return to Ben’s face and discover he’s awake.

  “What are you doing up?” Ben asks groggily.

  “Oh, I woke up . . . a few seconds ago. You ready for our walk?” I throw back the blanket enthusiastically before Ben can respond.

  “You’re already dressed. Let me guess. Another Ambien-induced bout of sleepwalking?”

  “Hmmm? My outfit? I woke up an hour ago and thought I should get dressed . . . then get back into bed . . . to use my time efficiently.”

  Ben nods before sleepily wandering toward the closet. I follow close behind him to avoid yesterday’s impromptu snooze on the floor. Luckily, Ben appears focused on walking this morning.

  Within moments of rounding our block, I sense a problem. Ben is not interested in walking. He is interested in meandering. Small children with foot-long legs and heavy backpacks overtake us en route to school. A woman with an abnormally short left leg limps past us as Ben peruses the shop windows. He comments on every thing from women’s lingerie to model train sets. The people gliding past us don’t register with Ben. He is too busy talking. He should be short of breath and perspiring; instead, he gabs away about nonsense.

  Having tired of the window displays, Ben partakes in the thinking man’s version of “what if.” Most girls ask things like “what if Alan asked me out,” “what if I was as popular as Pauline,” or occasionally “what if I could read people’s minds?”

  “What do you think would have happened if JFK hadn’t been assassinated?” Ben ponders aloud.

  “He would have continued the march into Vietnam. Keep your knees up.” Ben ignores my knee comment and continues down the tragedy-ridden Kennedy family tree.

  “What about Bobby Kennedy?”

  “Listen, chatty, unless you want to stay a fatty, I suggest you pick up the pace.” The word fatty slipped out a little too easily. How could I call him fatty? Did I remember nothing of the hell I myself had endured?

  “Don’t call me fatty, bitchy!”

  “I’m sorry, Ben, but we are currently averaging a two-hour mile.”

  “Don’t rush me; my stomach still hurts a little.”

  This is the fat-person lie I know all too well. I can’t let him get away with it. I may have been out of line calling him fatty, but he needs exercise.

  “Can we stop at Starbucks?”

  “Okay, but no Frappuccinos. They’re all sugar.”

  “I didn’t even say I wanted one. Jeez. I’m getting a mocha, drill sergeant.”

  I want to scream “A mocha? Why not deep-fried Snickers for breakfast?” but instead I nod.

  “Ben, have you been eating the lunches I pack?”

  “Yes.” Ben’s eyes dart around suspiciously, frantic for something to focus on.

  “Remember how much you liked vegetables when we first met? I want to help get you back there.”

  “Thanks, babe,” he says as he plants a kiss on my lips.

  If he knew what I’d done, he wouldn’t be thanking me.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Ben is cheating. I’ve had my suspicions for weeks, but having confirmation is hard to swallow. Ben is a cheater, a serious cheater. This is well beyond a minor indiscretion after a few too many glasses of wine while out of town. This is a standing appointment. All those nights he awkwardly stammered when answering my questions about work lunches or dinners. How could I have been so blind? Maybe I didn’t want to see the truth. I looked the other way and believed what felt good. Well, I certainly can’t do that now. The proof is burning a hole in my hand. How could Ben do this to me? After what we’ve been through— morning walks, tofu burgers, and sit-ups. We took a vow, but clearly that means nothing to him. Ben promised over a steaming pot of vegetables that he would eat my healthy home-packed lunches. And now this! Twinkie, Twix, and Snickers wrappers are in every pocket of his slacks. He consumes copious amounts of empty calories behind my back. I assumed he would sneak a Fig Newton or two, but Twinkies? There is nothing nutritious or filling about a Twinkie; it goes straight to his spare tire. I cannot believe how painfully addicted to junk food he has become.

  I have destroyed the bedroom looking for remnants of his binge eating. Under the dresser, I discover a sea of chip wrappers, mostly Doritos and Cheetos. If he eats like this at home, he must have an even larger stash at work. I imagine Ben’s desk, filled with fattening contraband that he shoves into his mouth between meetings, hoping no one will notice the crumbs on his tie before plumme
ting into self-loathing over the empty calories and nondiet soda he consumed.

  Secret eating leads to an anxiety-and guilt-filled lifestyle. A secret eater continually frets that someone will spot a dash of Cheetos dust, a smudge of Hershey’s chocolate, or a french fry grease stain. It is a miserable existence.

  In a remorseful haze, I wander toward Braham’s Spice Emporium on Jane Street in the West Village. Janice is determined to have more exotic flavorings than any caterer in town. I am far too preoccupied with Ben shoving Twix bars into his mouth to be an intelligent spice buyer right now. Staring at a bag of dried Indian parsley, all I can think is how dramatically I have screwed up Ben’s life. I have turned a vegetarian against vegetables.

  I manage to buy the spices on Janice’s list and make my way home.

  The bag of spices I hold is so pungent that it takes me a second to detect the smoky odor wafting from my apartment as I unlock the door.

  “Ben!” I holler as I inhale the toxic air.

  The apartment is a mélange of cigarette smoke and Lysol air freshener. Ben enters the living room, doing his best impression of innocence.

  “What’s up?” Ben asks as if he’s just turned fifteen.

  “What’s up? Are you serious? What’s up?” I scream back.

  “Why are you yelling?”

  “Why am I yelling? The entire apartment smells like smoke and freaking air freshener!”

  “Ohhh, that. John came over after work and we . . . burned a bagel. We sprayed Lysol to get rid of the smell.”