The Makedown (21 page)
“Anna, he’s a naughty boy. You must watch him with both eyes.” Again, she throws her head back to laugh.
“Naughty? What do you mean? He’s adorable!” I respond with a nervous laugh.
“Don’t fill her head with nonsense, Maria. I’m reformed.”
“Okay, darling,” Maria says with a dubious wink in my direction.
What does Maria mean by naughty? Is naughty a euphemism for Ben’s incessant need to flirt? Or does naughty mean unfaithful? My stomach sours as my brain depletes itself of serotonin.
“Excuse me, I’m going to run to the restroom.”
I scan the restroom floor, looking for other patrons’ feet. Luckily, no one is there. I immediately whip out my cell phone and dial Janice.
“Hello?”
“What does
naughty
mean?”
“It’s called dictionary.com, you lazy—”
“No! What does it mean when a woman calls a man naughty?”
“It can go either way— fucking a prostitute or flirting with his best friend’s wife.”
“Shit.”
“Who said it?”
“Ben’s Argentinean friend Maria.” I say her name with a thick Spanish accent.
“Oh, that is not good.”
“What? Do you know her?”
“Well, South American women are pretty lenient as it is. I would definitely invest—”
“Okay, thanks,” I interrupt Janice, unable to hear any more.
Two hours later, my mind still obsesses over the word
naughty
. So when Ben excuses himself to go to the bathroom, I decide it’s time for some reconnaissance.
“Has Ben changed much since Brown?”
“He was exactly the same at Brown, except with a flock around him at all times.”
“A flock of women? A flock of men?” I ask a little too curiously.
“Both, darling!” Maria laughs.
“Were you a part of the flock?”
“For a bit, right after we slept together, but I tired of the crowd,” she says nonchalantly.
Did she say she slept with my boyfriend?
“Oh, I thought you were gay,” I say, unable to hide my disappointment.
“I am, but for Ben, I made an exception.” Again, she winks at me. The Ben situation is far more dire than I originally thought. He can turn lesbians straight.
Ben approaches, unaware of the bomb Maria dropped.
“Babe, did you get me a coffee?”
“Oh, I forgot . . . totally slipped my mind.” It takes every ounce of willpower not to ask if there is anything he has forgotten to tell me. Perhaps screwing Eva Perón simply slipped his mind.
Back at the apartment, in my plain white tank and matching shorts, I scratch Ben’s back, neurotically thinking of Maria’s exception for Ben. I want to say something, but I don’t want to appear possessive.
“Did you and Maria ever date?” I finally ask casually.
“Babe, I told you she’s gay.”
“Well, a lot of people experiment in college.”
“Not her. She’s a ladies-only kind of woman.”
Why is he lying? Is this what she meant by naughty? He’s a liar. Who is this man? Is his name even Ben?
“She’s fantastic, sexy, and quite funny. I love the way she calls you na-na-naughty!” The word
naughty
lodges on my tongue, causing me to stutter uncomfortably.
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes, it’s very sexy.”
“How sexy?”
Ben is eager enough to have sex that I can slip in a question without setting off his jealousy detector.
“What exactly did she mean by naughty?”
“Well, I didn’t excel at fidelity in college.”
On that seductive note, he kisses me. I pull back.
“How about now?”
“I’m a good boy now.”
“Are you willing to take a polygraph to that effect?” I ask seriously.
Ben laughs uproariously, leans in for a kiss, and whispers, “I love you, Anna.”
“I love you, Ben.” Or whoever you are.
I
have been naïve. What’s a few pounds going to do to a guy who is sexy enough to turn lesbians straight? Not much. It’s going to take far more to deter the ladies than some chunk. I need to go deeper. This is no longer a pet project; this is a mission. Ben may have won the genetic lottery, but that doesn’t mean he has a free pass for questionable behavior. The guy clearly needs to see how the other 95 percent live. Furthermore, our relationship needs a security system to keep out intruders. This is, after all, a city with as many models as Jackson Hole, Wyoming, has people. I can’t continue to send him into this city of easy women looking like he does. It’s too dangerous.
Thinking back on my nerdy youth, four distinct factors come to mind: clothes, hair, weight, and acne. I omit acne from my mission. It grosses me out to kiss someone with sores on their face. I am a hypocrite, but it’s the truth. Plus, crappy sebaceous glands are hormonally based and, therefore, impossible to cultivate. Hair, clothes, and weight, on the other hand, I can easily corrupt. In my youth, my imagination muted the reality of my physical form, from weight to matted rats’ nests to filthy garments. Stretch pants were a favorite; in fact, anything with an elastic waistband was beloved.
With my own history in mind, I launch a plan to protect Ben while exposing him to another way of life. A different culture, if you will. I christen this project The Makedown. My train of thought is simple: makeup is applied to bring out the beauty that Mother Nature forgot to give us; makedowns are applied to lessen the excessive beauty that Mother Nature accidentally dumped on certain people.
The Makedown’s three formal areas of concentration will be weight, hair, and clothes. Starting with weight, I will step up his caloric intake while slowing his exercise regimen. This requires a bit of careful planning, but step two of my plan, clothes, will help. Most people estimate weight gain or loss based on how their clothes fit. It’s much easier to indulge when there’s a little extra room in the waistband. Therefore, before I downgrade his wardrobe, I’ll need to replace a few choice pairs of slacks with a larger size. This is tricky, but doable.
Hair is more complex. It’s not easy to get a hygienic man with short hair to avoid bathing and develop matted clumps. I ponder this a while. Maybe grime isn’t the way to go with Ben. It sounds dreadful, but thinning may be far more effective. Men take balding seriously; it’s as important to them as weight is to women. If I lessen Ben’s luscious mahogany hair, it will help him tap into a common experience, insecurity. I don’t want to destroy his foundation, merely shake it slightly. Weathering the emotional impact of a little balding will undoubtedly increase Ben’s compassion for the struggles of regular folks.
Hello Fatty,
You have crossed a line. You are long past moral ambiguity. But then again, isn’t all fair in love and makedowns?
—Anna
I thumb through Ben’s side of the closet, inspecting slacks and shirts, cataloging which pieces are best to replace, based on the frequency of use. Obviously, replacing his tuxedo would do little, as he hasn’t worn that since I met him. I need to focus on Ben’s staples, black slacks. I lift the perfectly pressed, soft lambswool slacks and scrutinize the label. God damn it, it’s Prada. I was naïvely hoping to find a Banana Republic label. Prada is expensive; even I know that. I rub my index finger against the fabric. It’s itch-free and soft enough to sleep on. As Ben is a connoisseur of fine dining, fine women, and fine furnishings, designer clothing should hardly come as a surprise. I cover the slacks in old dry-cleaning plastic and don my finest Gap outfit. Prada, here I come.
I call Janice to ask her about her experiences shopping at Prada, but when I mention my three-tiered plan, I am unable to get another word in edgewise.
“No. No. This is too much. Do you understand me, Anna? Too much. Switching labels in pants, formulating a three-part plan— this reeks of insanity. You are acting like your mother! You need a reality check. You are a caterer; you should be here chopping vegetables, not masquerading as some sort of crazed evil girlfriend!”
“You don’t understand. Gary isn’t this good-looking. You have no idea the pressure I’m under!”
“What about me? I’m prepping for a luncheon alone and running a psych ward! Perhaps you forgot, but we are serving forty people lunch tomorrow.”
“I didn’t forget. I called Juan. He’s on his way in to help you.”
“You called Juan, the man you didn’t even know existed, and now you have his phone number?”
“Well, after you made such a big deal out of me not knowing who he was, I felt like I had to make some kind of effort to at least get to know him.”
“Have you ever heard the AA slogan ‘Let go and let God’? What do you think of trying that before this three-tiered plan of yours?”
“You obviously cannot relate to what I am going through.”
“Don’t get huffy; it was just a suggestion.”
“I gotta go. Prada’s waiting.”
“Well, Juan just got here— but you should be here, too.”
“Bye.”
I am annoyed that Janice had such a negative reaction to my plan. If she understood the agony of dating a man who looks like Ben when looking like me, she wouldn’t be so judgmental. Feeling insecure and in need of someone else’s insanity, I dial Mother.
“Hello.”
“Mother, it’s Anna.”
“Anna, it’s Mother.”
“Yeah, I know. I called you.”
“Well, you sounded so formal, I thought it best I adhere to the same protocol. I thought maybe someone had kidnapped you and—”
“Mother,” I interrupt, “I wanted to ask your opinion on something. Have you ever heard the saying ‘Let go and let God’?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what do you think of it? Should I give it a try?”
“That is a pretty risky approach for you. God has shown even less interest in you than your own father has. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“Thanks, Mother,” I say and hang up before the call can get any worse.
The Prada store is located near our apartment, on Prince and Broadway in SoHo. I walk past the entrance three times, unable to summon the confidence to enter. The immaculate and ultramodern store intimidates me. Will they assess my middle-class clothing and roll their eyes at me? I can’t spend all day pacing in front of the store like an expectant father at the hospital. I need to get this over with before I drop dead from anticipation. Who cares if they stare at me or scream
Gap
from the rafters? I will merely scream back, “Yes, I’m middle class and proud, bitches!” Well, maybe not the bitch part; screaming profanities in public is out of character for me. Instead, I’ll probably lie and tell them I am an undercover shopper, assessing the treatment of an average consumer in their store.
“Can I help you?” a tall, brown-haired woman asks with a hideously large smile. It’s been two seconds since I entered the store. These people are on it.
“Um, I am looking for some pants.”
“Excellent. The women’s section is upstairs. Right this way.”
“No!” I blurt out loudly. “I am looking for a specific pair of pants for my boyfriend.”
“No problem, we’ll find what you’re looking for, and if we don’t have the right size in stock, I can have it sent over from another store.” This woman is nice; I won’t even need my undercover shopper story. She brings me a few samples before I settle on the right pair.
“Um, there’s something else.”
“Of course. What else are you looking for?”
“I need to switch the thirty-six size tag with a thirty-four.”
“No problem, we have an in-house tailor,” she responds without raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow.
“Do you get this request a lot?”
“Of course. The men in New York are vainer than the women.”
I spent $1,275 on three pairs of slacks for Ben. This is a major expense for me; I have never charged so much money at once. After the interest accrues on my credit card, these extra-soft but still overpriced slacks will have cost me $1,400. My chest hurts. My throat narrows. How could I spend that much money? I don’t make enough to spend $1,400 on slacks, especially when they’re not even for me. I need to sit down, but I don’t want the Prada bag to touch the ground. Even the bag is nicer than anything I own. This is yet another example of the different worlds Ben and I inhabit. What am I doing? I should be with a substitute teacher in a studio in Brooklyn, not with a rich lawyer with a big one bedroom in SoHo.
Sitting heavily on a nearby bus bench, I have a panic attack. Dating Ben has single-handedly been both the worst and the best thing to happen to me. It’s ignited every insecurity I have while simultaneously showing me love for the first time. Contrary to my adolescent fantasies, love isn’t the antidote to life’s problems. It’s just the beginning.
T
hree weeks later, a slightly rounder Ben trails behind me after a Saturday-morning Starbucks run. As he sips his venti latte, he makes an odd face.
“Babe, I think they made my latte with half-and-half again. This is the fourth time this week.”
Luckily, he hasn’t connected me to the breve latte mistakes.
“Here, let me taste it,” I offer politely. I lift his latte to my lips and savor the unbelievably rich cream.
“Tastes like milk to me.”
“Really?”
“I think you’ve been eating too healthy, so everything tastes fattening,” I lamely declare while opening the mailbox in the lobby of our building.
“I don’t think so. I’m gaining weight.”
“Are you insane? You look like a stick.”
Before he answers, I nonchalantly hand him three catalogs, all addressed to Ben Reynolds. My father’s love of ill-fitting catalog clothes inspired me. I’m hoping Ben gives this unflattering shopping mode a try.
“Someone stole my identity,” Ben says seriously.
“What?”
“I didn’t tell you, but I was suspended from the gym while they verified my identity. Apparently, some man called up claiming to be me, canceled my membership, and accused me of pleasuring myself in the locker room. And I just got three catalogs for cheap clothes. I’ve never shopped at any of these places.”
“What about your credit cards and ATM card. Any strange charges?”
“No, nothing.”
“Ben, it seems odd that someone would steal your identity and only cancel your gym membership and send you some catalogs.”