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.
Chapter Twenty-four
Three 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.”
“I know, it’s really messed up. I don’t even want to go to the gym; everyone thinks I’ve been wanking off in the locker room,” Ben responds morosely, igniting a pang of guilt within me.
“Maybe this is a sign from the universe that you should start shopping from home. Let’s see what they have to offer,” I suggest enthusiastically.
“Anna, I’m not shopping from some cheap catalog. I’m an attorney at Benson and Silverberg, for God’s sake,” Ben says with frustration.
“Wow, I never knew you were such a snob.”
“I am not a snob. I’m a vegetarian,” Ben adds defen- sively.
“Wait, because you don’t eat animals you can’t be a snob?”
“Yeah, well.”
“I take it back. You’re a self-righteous snob.”
“I resent that. If my income dictated that I shop through catalogs, then I would, but it doesn’t, so I don’t. That doesn’t make me a snob.”
I actually agree with him, but I want him to buy something from the catalog, so I continue. “Whatever you say . . . snob.”
“Big words from a girl who cuts the Gap labels out of her clothes. What? Are you ashamed to shop there?”
“How do you know about that?” I demand, trying to hide my embarrassment.
“I got suspicious when none of your clothes had labels and the trash was filled with Gap bags.”
“I am not ashamed of the Gap. I cut out the label because I believe all labels are ridiculous. I don’t care where my clothes come from. I’m not as shallow as you are.”
“Good, let’s order you a new wardrobe from the catalog. How do you feel about polyester?”
“Shut up!”
“Here is a lovely orange pantsuit made from a polyester blend. Oh, and look at those buttons— gold leaf.”
“Fine! You’re right. I won’t shop from a catalog,” I relent. “However, shopping at the Gap exclusively is different from shopping at Hermès, Prada, and Gucci exclusively.”
“Don’t try to make me feel guilty, Anna. I recycle, don’t eat animals, vote Democrat, and donate ten percent to charity. I deserve to shop wherever I want!” Ben yells at me as he opens the front door.
“Fine, so do I,” I scream back.
“And stop getting plastic bags at the Gap! They take a thousand years to biodegrade!” Ben shouts.
“I suppose you bring your own canvas sack when shopping at Gucci!” I retort, flopping onto the couch. Ben slams the bedroom door.
Facedown in the couch, something wells up in me. It’s not tears or anger, it’s laughter. I laugh uncontrollably. What a ridiculous fight! Who is the bigger snob? Who will shop from a catalog? Who recycles? Who the hell fights about such idiotic stuff? I gasp for air as my eyes water. Ben opens the bedroom door with a similar expression. He collapses next to me as we shake with hilarity. Ben chokes out the words “orange pantsuit” before descending into paroxysms of laughter. We playfully hit one another, wheezing for air, astonished by the stupidity of our fight.
Cheap clothing, whether from a catalog or not, is out. Clearly, Ben takes pleasure in labels. I find a solution in a more obscure brand of luxury clothing, Façonnable. While flipping through Home and Garden, I saw an ad for their line of high-end flannel shirts. Wasps predominantly wear these shirts while shooting birds or other defenseless animals outside their country estates. Of course, getting Ben to wear these plaid specialties will require a well-thought-out presentation. That or a stun gun.
Chapter Twenty-five
How do you watch this shit? Every episode is exactly the same,” I complain to Ben.
“You just don’t understand the show, babe. And for the record, there are three Law & Orders, so obviously I’m not the only one who thinks there’s something to it.”
“But you’re a lawyer. Why do you want to waste your leisure time watching a show about your work? It seems kind of boring.”
“Anna, I practice corporate law. I don’t get to cross-examine child molesters and murderers,” Ben says seriously. “Hey, can you get me a Nature’s Way? I’d get up, but it’s about to start.”
“Fine,” I mumble, secretly satisfied that the Nature’s Ways have become such a hit. I knew Skors were the way to go. So damn addictive. I hand him the bar, then lay my face against his chest. Onscreen, some hairy-faced perp lies to two hardened detectives with hearts of gold.
“That guy’s kind of hot.”
“Who, Stabler?” Ben asks excitedly.
“No, the bad guy.”
“That guy? He’s disgusting.”
“It’s the facial hair. It’s so rugged and sexy.”
“You told me you hate beards.”
This is true; I have said that on more than one occasion.
“Um, I was referring to the women who date gay men— beards. I don’t like those ladies, but men with beards, yeah I’m into it.”
“Okay,” Ben says, distracted by the television.
“I have a recurring fantasy of being taken by a poorly groomed man with a beard. Really wild hair, ’cause that’s how it makes me feel, wild.”
“What are you talking about?” Ben asks, now focusing fully on me.
“Well, just like this show offers excitement that your job doesn’t have, sometimes I want a man with a rough, wild beard.” I’m not sure how much sense I’m making, but I see Ben study the actor with an air of calculating appraisal.
“I think I’d look good with one.”
Yeah, right. I smile, knowing the seed has been successfully planted. The phone rings as Ben shoves the Nature’s Way into his mouth. I head for the living room, not wanting to disturb Ben during his precious Law & Order.
“Hello?”
“Start spreading the news, I’m coming today.”
Oh my God. I cannot allow this to happen.
“No, you aren’t.”
“I’m trying to be a part of it. New York. New York!”
“Mother, I forbid you to enter the state, do you hear me?”
“Your brother has a girlfriend.”
“What? How is that possible? And what does that have to do with
anything?”
“She hustles Raisinets down at the cineplex.”
“She works at the concession stand? That’s perfect. But as to the relevance—”
“Anyway, I’m lonely. Thought I’d come stay with you. Meet this boyfriend of yours, see your new body, the Big Apple.”
“No.”
“No? You can’t say no to me. I’m your mother.”
“Yes, I can. You said no to me my entire life.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Who was it then?”
“God.”
“God said no to me?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I didn’t want to agree, but he strong-armed me.”
“Mother, you can’t stay with me— ever. You are not allowed to enter the state of New York without my permission. Am I clear?”
“Wow, after all these years of defending you to the big guy, you go and prove me wrong.”
“Mother, you’re not even religious.”
“I’ll have you know I bought a limited edition Bible in Ebonics.”
“What?”
“If black kids break into the house and see that I have a Bible in Ebonics, they will walk right out the door on account of me understanding their plight.”
Ignoring Mother’s asinine security theory and her trademark racism, I simply ask, “They sell Bibles written in Ebonics?”
“QVC cares about race relations.”
“Mother, listen to me. Stay in Ohio. No one in New York will accept you. Absolutely no one!”
I can’t handle Mother on a good day, let alone when I am knee deep in securing Ben a place in the less-than-perfect category.
While I wait for the stubble to develop properly into facial hair, I attend to my own hair needs. I can’t let myself go just because Ben drops a few notches. If anything, it’s time to increase my butt clenches, gym visits, and bikini area maintenance. I am a huge fan of Nair’s extra-strength hair removal cream, in large part because it doesn’t require me to lay spread-eagle with an angry Russian between my legs. Not that I am prudish, but Anyas, the waxing communist, goes places my gynecologist has only heard of. A little cream, even with the strange chemical smell, is much easier. I flip through celeb magazines while the cream sets for ten minutes. I never let Ben see me during this pro cess, because it would shatter his image of me as effortlessly average. Nair shrinks your hair, slowly thinning entire patches until there is nothing left. From the look of the hair shrinkage, I have another three minutes until rinse-off. Any sooner and some hair will remain.