The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) (5 page)

Was this what it had boiled down to? Your own family not accepting you because of the way you looked? Was losing weight really all it would take to make my own mother—and husband—love me?

Chapter 5:

Cuts like a Knife

S
o at the tender age of thirty-four, and because I wanted to be happy again (and possibly have another husband-induced orgasm if I wasn’t asking for too much), I accepted it was time. After twelve years of marriage to Ira, and with a great deal of
support
from my mother, I’d been bullied, badgered and finally blackmailed into it.

For the first time, Marcy volunteered to come over at least once a week and spend time poring over brochures, websites, making appointments for me with doctors of all kinds, psychologists, psychiatrists, as if I’d suddenly become this big case, or someone very important to her. She’d take care of it all and all I had to do was just show up. Like some star on a red carpet.

It actually felt kind of nice, to have her there, encouraging me, telling me I was doing the right thing for once, and that I wouldn’t be sorry, and that I should just wait and see how my life would change. If only she’d been there for me like this when I was a kid and really needed my mother’s guidance and not a stand-in crew of relatives. It would’ve been nice.

So, with her support, I was going under the knife to lose weight. And, let’s face it, to save my marriage. Yes, I admit I had gained quite a few pounds since, say, our very first date. But now things were about to change for good. The next day I was going to have one of those operations that you can never be too fat for, and that was going to—uh, yay?—change my life?

Who was I doing this for anyway? For a husband who wouldn’t sleep with me as a form of punishment, until I got down to a size ten? Yeah, like that was happening. Was it even worth it? It wasn’t like the final prize was a night with David Gandy or something—that sort of fun was still restricted to my dreams.

I picked up the phone and dialed Paul’s number.

“Yellowh,” came his beloved voice, and I cracked.

“I can’t do it,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

Silence. A long one.

“Paul? Did you not hear what I just said?”

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking. Just tell me why.”

I swallowed the knot in my throat. “I’m afraid I’ll die. What if I do die, Paul? Who’s going to take care of Warren and Maddy? Can you see Ira raising them? Can you? Because I sure as hell can’t!”

“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.