“Calm down, Erica. Relax. You know your aunts and I would never leave the kids alone at Ira’s mercy. Is there any other reason?”
“Of course not,” I lied. “What other reason could there be?”
“Oh, just fear of regaining the weight and having to admit defeat and realizing you just missed your last boat to happiness? Or, paradoxically, fear of losing all your protective padding and having to face the world a much more slender and thus, according to your devious mind, a more vulnerable woman?”
Good old Paul had me down pat.
“So? What if?” I sniffed. “What do I do? The op’s tomorrow.”
“Honey, I can’t tell you what to do. Is there a distinct possibility you could die? That’s why they make you sign a waiver. Are you never going to pack it back on again? Who knows? And probably, if you start eating again, you’ll blow the whole operation—pun intended.”
I sniffed and dashed a hand across my eyes. He was right.
“Sweetie—what I do know is that if you don’t go through with it, tomorrow morning you’re going to groan again because tying your shoes requires just about the same effort as lassoing crazy cows—no pun intended this time.”
I nodded into the phone and let out a loud laugh, followed by a howl of pain, humiliation and frustration. Why was being a woman so difficult?
“What does Ira have to say about it?” he asked, and I snorted.
“He’s beside himself, of course, as if being thin was a solution to all our problems.”
“Well, Erica, maybe not to yours as a couple, but to yours health-wise, along with other things. Ever think of that?”
Being thin. It wouldn’t be just about fitting onto Ira’s lap or into nicer clothes, of course, or even Marcy’s approval. It would mean not worrying that the airplane seats are too narrow for my butt, or that the seatbelt won’t stretch across my belly, leaving me the only person in the craft bouncing around like a rubber ball from wall to wall, and ultimately, to my death (and that of other people’s) in case of turbulence or a crash. I could already see the headlines:
Flight two-three-seven-eight—Obese woman bounces passengers to death, then finally slams head-on into the cabin door and dies of severe concussion. Cabin crew safe.
No matter what other things you had going for you, no matter how pretty you were or how good your hair and teeth were, if you were fat, people still looked at you with pity. I hated that. At work no one looked at me with pity. At work my size was of no consequence because there I became a goddess. But once I got back into my car and homeward…
“I do want to be slim,” I sobbed finally.
“Sunshine, if you drop—and you will—at least six dress sizes, you’ll be able to go cycling with your kids and play tag and everything else without giving yourself a minor stroke every time.”
Again, I nodded, and it was as if Paul saw me over the phone. “Good. Now get some sleep. I’ll be there tomorrow morning to drive you to the hospital.”
“Okay,” I sniffed, drying my eyes for good this time. Enough tears for one day.
But then, eight hours later, as I donned a horrid hospital nightie, the kind that leaves your ass bare and cold, I wasn’t so sure again. What would happen if I called the whole thing off? Did I really need to go through with something so big? Or would I rather stay this big?
I could walk away right now, if I wanted to. I wasn’t shackled down to an operating table yet. The choice was mine. But because I was free to make my own decision, I knew that if I really did chicken out now, tomorrow I would be in the same situation as Paul had said—hating my body, struggling to tie my shoelaces (although I actually bought slip-ons to make my life easier) and panting to keep up with my sporty children.
I’m not blaming anybody else of course, but at one point I don’t know what happened to me. All I know is that after Warren’s birth, Ira had started spending all his time at work and, faced with lonely evenings stretching ahead of me, instead of trying to get rid of the baby weight, I’d started to eat and eat and still my heart would never be content. And Maddy’s birth had simply added onto it.
But now I had the opportunity to change all that in a snip. I’d spent days running tests—heart rate, blood, breathing patterns and everything else. Shrinks had made sure I wouldn’t freak out at not seeing Pamela Anderson in the mirror (which was never going to happen anyway, I was aware), and that the weight loss would take months, etc.
Just before my op, Paul came in to sit with me. He saw my family (led by Marcy, for once) come, deposit kisses on my forehead and go—too choked up, Paul explained lamely, about me getting sliced to pieces to stay a little longer.
“You’re still here,” I countered.
“Don’t kid yourself. I’m only here for the drama,” he winked, and at that moment I knew Paul, who was as gay as they make ’em, was more man than any other in my life.
Looking into Ira’s eyes, on the other hand, I saw myself the way I never had and never cared to. I saw a fat, ugly, pathetic woman willing to go under the knife to keep her husband.
They came for me twenty minutes later.
“Here’s for drama,” I squeaked and Paul squeezed my hand—real hard—and gave me a quick peck on the cheek before they wheeled me away.
“I’ll be waiting here. See you later, sunshine.”
I was left in a room all by myself (and being dumped there like a slab of raw meat was enough to make me want to jump and run for the emergency exit stark naked—who cares who died of shock at exposure to my blubber), staring up at the Styrofoam square ceiling panels with no one but the ghosts in my past, and the demons of my present. And I couldn’t take my mind off Madeleine and Warren. What would happen to them if I croaked on this very table in the next few hours? Ira couldn’t cook to save himself, and as far as keeping a household running, forget it. They’d have had social services around by the end of the week.
I choked on a lump in my throat and coughed. Who was going to get them ready for school and ferry them back and forth? My mom? Can you imagine Marcy, lumbered with two kids? Thank God for my aunts and Paul.
And now, lying here, ready to be diced, there was a distinct, blood-chilling possibility that I wouldn’t wake up from the op. Did I really want to be skinny that badly? Hell, yes. I knew that now. I was tired of fighting. I wanted the easy way out now, please. I needed a sign that everything would be okay after this. That there could and would be a new me. And out of nowhere, silly, irrational tears began to trickle out of my eyes and sideways into my ears, cold and abundant.
A beeping sound made me jump. Was it my heart monitor indicating something? Maybe an oncoming, massive heart attack that would prevent me from going ahead with it? I turned over in the bed, careful not to dislodge the patches above and under my breasts, and touched a solid, rectangular object under my sheet. A cell phone? I pulled it out from under the covers and looked at it, frowning. It was Ira’s. He must have dropped it when he bent over to kiss me, and now he was texting me to tell me he was coming back for it. Ira couldn’t live without his cell phone.
I pushed the button and squinted at the tiny wording:
I’ll be waiting for you—stilettos and no panties, sexy boy!
I gasped. Sexy boy? My monitor flatlined for a second, then went berserk as I absorbed the words. Sexy boy? Was it just a friend goofing around, maybe? My heart pounding out of control, I quickly texted back:
And what exactly do you want me to do to you, pussycat?
The answer was almost immediate. Whatever you want. I’m horny.
Well. Miss Horny was going to have a coronary. With shaky fingers I typed in, Nice try, pussycat. This is Ira’s wife.
And then I deleted it.
A lover! Another woman! No wonder he wasn’t interested in sex with me, the bastard! It had nothing to do with me being big, or
my teeth-grinding, or even talking in my sleep! Before I knew what I was doing, I had ripped my patches off and wound the bed sheets around my naked body, almost knocking over the nurse who’d come in to prepare me for the surgical banquet. They’d have a long wait, those butchers.
“Mrs. Lowenstein! What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry!” I cried and swiped at my tears as, barefoot, I burst through the doors and down an endless corridor to where Paul was waiting—doctors, nurses, interns, patients and all turning to stare at the quasi-naked five-foot-ten mountain of flesh blazing a trail down the corridor followed by a tiny nurse wielding a mask.
Paul looked up from his magazine, his eyes round. “What are you doing?”
“Drama,” I bawled as I darted past him.
“What?” he called after me.
“Just run!” I cried behind my shoulder, scooping up the bed sheets around me, dodging stretchers, wheelchairs and crash carts as Paul, juggling my overnight bag and handbag, caught up. I hadn’t run this fast since I chased my school crush Tony Esposito down a back lane to see whom he was secretly going out with.
And soon we were out in the parking lot, me pulling my coat on over my birthday suit as we dashed past startled faces. I must’ve looked a sight. It was no wonder Ira preferred some skinny bitch in stilettos.
Once at the wheel, I shifted into drive and burst into tears.
“Sweetie,” Paul wheezed as he jumped in and I took off with a screech, burning rubber. “We talked about this. You could’ve just told me you’d changed your mind about the op. No biggie.”
It took me a few minutes to be able to breathe properly, let alone speak. I rounded out of the parking lot and burst into traffic.
“He’s got someone else, the bastard!” I sobbed, tears blinding me so I couldn’t see where we were going. “It wasn’t about me being big; it was about her being smaller!”
Paul gasped. “Shut up, you’re shitting me!” Then his eyes swung back to the road.
“I shit you not!” I cried, swerving just in time to avoid an oncoming car. “She told him to hurry because she was panty-less and horny!”
“Erica…”
“This is ridiculous. I almost let them friggin’ dice me like a chicken. And for who? For a pseudo-husband who’s got a lover in stilettos! God, I’m so pathetic.”
“Erica…”
“What the hell’s wrong with me? I could’ve died on that table and he knew it! And he sent me all the same!”
“Erica!” Paul screamed.
“What?” I screamed back.
“We’re both going to die if you don’t slow down and stay in your lane!”
I turned back to the traffic and suddenly I didn’t know where I was. “What? What are you talking about?”
Paul’s hand steadied the wheel as he sighed. “Pull over.”
I did as I was told (does that surprise you?) and broke down, my head buried in the wheel, my hair in my face, gagging on my salty tears.
Paul sat silently, caressing my nape, over and over again. It felt good. Finally, when I was all cried out, he sighed. “Come on, sunshine. Switch places.”
I stretched my bare leg over the gear stick and hauled my big ass into the passenger’s seat as Paul got out and went around. Once in the driver’s seat, he pulled me into his arms with a sigh.
“Who is she?” he whispered.
“I don’t know!” I bawled all over again, tears blinding my eyes. “I can’t believe he did this to me!”
“Forget him for now. Get some clothes on. We’ll go home, have a chamomile and sort this out, okay?”
“No! I want to drive over to his office or wherever he is and emasculate him with my nail file! Have you seen my boots?”
“In your overnight bag.”
I threw my upper body into the back seat as I rifled through my things. Socks, bras, panties (no goddamn stilettos), my Kindle, my favorite family picture, which I threw to one side.
“I don’t need surgery,” I mumbled into my bag. “Or a husband that doesn’t love me anymore! I can do it on my own!” Which, I suddenly realized, was true. It wasn’t necessary for me to take such drastic measures to lose weight. Would I rather be diced up and have a cheating husband than lead a healthy lifestyle on my own? A bike-ride round the park a couple of times a week, giving up dessert. I could do that. A whole new start! I could take charge now. I knew I could.
“Good for you!” Paul chimed, slapping my exposed butt. I retrieved my boots and stuck a long leg up onto the dashboard to put them on, but my feet were swollen.
“Stuck,” I huffed after a few minutes of pulling and huffing.
“Here,” Paul said, leaning over me. “Damn, you’re right. Hang on a minute.”
And with that, he got into the seat behind me and reached around me (he had long arms) so he could pull them on from behind me.
“Right this moment my husband’s bonking a bitch in stilettos, and I can’t even get my boots onto my fat feet!” I bawled uncontrollably as I upturned my bag looking for a tissue. “I’m a fucking disaster—a joke! No wonder he cheated on me!”
“Sweetie, don’t be ridiculous. You are not a joke. You’re a wonderful, well-respected woman.”
Suddenly sirens blazed out of absolutely nowhere and a female cop on a motorbike pulled up alongside us, peering into our car, wide-eyed.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded and we froze. We must’ve looked a sight. I was naked with a coat over me and one leg stuck in the air as Paul grunted and heaved to pull my boot on, my lap covered in dubious-looking cosmetics, creams and magazines. Enough to put you away for good in puritanical Boston.
I looked up at the agent and, not finding any words, began to bawl all over again.
“Please, officer,” I heard Paul shout over my howls. “Don’t mind her. Her husband badgered her into going for a stomach bypass while he was screwing someone else.” He took a look at the hefty policewoman and craftily added, “A skinny bitch.”
The policewoman raised her eyebrows in disgust. “You’re kidding me.”
“I hate men!” I cried.
“Sunshine—you have to leave him,” Paul urged. “Now’s your chance.”
The officer peered closer into the car. “Lemme get this straight. Your husband cheated on you?”
“Uh-huh,” I sniffed, wiping my eyes and taking deep breaths to calm down.
“After he told her to get a stomach bypass or else,” Paul confirmed.
“Divorce him,” sentenced the policewoman.
“I know, right?” Paul exclaimed. “I’ve been telling her for years.”
“He should pay you alimony,” the policewoman opined. “Have you got any evidence? In court you need proof.”
“Proof?” I shrieked, waving the cell phone under her nose. “What more proof do you want?”
The policewoman’s lips moved as she read the text message and then glared at me. “You should’ve pulled a Bobbit.”
“Bobbit was neutered because he wanted too much,” I corrected her. “My husband doesn’t want—oh, forget it. Take us in, officer, and let’s end this shitty day in grand style.”
The woman’s big brown eyes softened. “Tell you what. You put some clothes back on, Ma’am, and I’ll pretend I never saw you. Okay?”
I wiped my eyes and nodded. “Okay. I’m sorry for the hassle, officer.”
“And besides—you’re beautiful just the way you are. Happy Bobbit Day,” the plump woman smiled. A beautiful smile. Maybe, one day, if I ever decided to play for the other team, I could always look her up.
After she waved us off like dear old friends, my cell phone began to ring.
“Erica, this is Doctor Bowers. What happened?” asked my bypass doctor.
“I’m sorry, I
... I panicked.”
A bored sigh. Lots of people jumped ship before the fat feast. We’d talked about it and I’d assured him it wouldn’t happen to me. But that was before I knew I had a cheating, no-good slime-ball of a husband.
“All right. It’s okay. Let’s meet in my office and we’ll discuss this calmly. Okay?”
“Uhm, no, I can’t.”
“I understand. You need time. Next week?”
“No, I, uhm... I’ve changed my mind.”
Silence.
“Gotta go, Doctor Bowers, sorry! Thank you for everything!”
And I hung up, a new, braver, determined me. There was no way I could ever forgive Ira for cheating. There was no way I could forgive Ira for everything. Not even the gaping years of loneliness looming ahead or the fact that big women were, according to Ira, out, could change my mind.
Erica had finally left the building!
Chapter 6:
One Way (Out)
I’ll spare you the moment Ira got home and realized I hadn’t gone through with the operation. His eyes widened in surprise to see me there, and then narrowed when he saw I was still all there. Perhaps he thought I’d come home looking like Pamela Anderson, or maybe even his panties-less lover in stilettos. I don’t think anyone told him it would actually take months for me to shed the weight, and that they wouldn’t just hack off the fat bits like a cut of meat at the butcher counter. Like I wanted to do to him right now. All the murder fantasies and I finally knew what my unconscious had known all along. My eyes swung to the knife block in the kitchen, then back to him.
The asshole would’ve let me go through with a life-threatening operation when all this time he’d had his own Pamela Anderson waiting for him under the sheets. Bastard. This was the ultimate, the worst offense he could’ve thrown at me.
I knew I could do it on my own now. Not just the diet, but my whole life.
The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) Page 5