Read Online The Makedown by Gitty Daneshvari - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gitty Daneshvari
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another slice. Once again, I fold the slice in half, drain the oil, shove, swallow, and repeat. When the second slice is done, I feel full.
Hello Fatty,
You are full. Actually, you were full before you even started with the pizza, you fat ass. Stop eating. Stop eating. Stop eating, Fatty!!! Think of FG!! She’ll be so disappointed, you nasty cow.
— Anna
I override my body’s voice and order a third slice. I am now inebriated on fat. I’ve lost the ability to speak. I hit the counter with my fist, nod at mole man, and lay down three dollars. I fold the slice, drain the oil, shove, and swallow. After three slices, my stomach is swollen and painful. I wobble home with thoughts of mutilation and vomit. Ill, mentally and physically, I set my alarm to ensure I have enough time to wash off the pizza smell. The situation is analogous to a cheating man washing away the scent of his mistress before his wife gets home, except not nearly as exciting.
The communal bathroom is empty at 7:00, when I begin my degreasing session. I stand naked except for the shower sandals, massaging my hair and body aggressively, rinsing away any lingering pizza aroma. Seated on the L train, I perform a quick breath check. I worry that a burp or hiccup could ruin everything in a second, exposing my terrible lapse. I immediately decide to keep myself outside a four-foot radius around Janice.
“Hello,” Janice yells out as I enter D&D.
“Hi,” I meekly respond, watching her lay out fruit and black coffee. I look over my list of errands for the day, excited to leave as soon as possible. Janice watches me suspiciously, invisibly shelving her maternal role for that of the food bitch.
“Anna, what did you have for dinner last night?” she asks with studied casualness.
I should have prepared something; I was too preoccupied with the smell factor. “Oh . . . a lot of water . . . and steamed . . . broccoli . . . with rice . . . brown rice,” I stammer.
Janice places a piece of pineapple into her mouth, all the while keeping her eyes trained on me. “How long did you cook the rice?”
“Um . . . I would guesstimate that it was about ten minutes,” I stutter awkwardly. Rice! Why would I choose rice? I’ve never made rice except for Uncle Ben’s, which cooks in the microwave.
“How many cups?”
“Um . . . three.”
“Anna, if you ever get married, don’t cheat. You are a terrible liar.”
Ignoring the true meaning of the comment, I ask, “Do you think I’ll get married?”
“What did you really eat for dinner?”
“Not that I’m obsessed with getting married, because I’m not. I’ve never even bought a wedding magazine before. I was just wondering if you thought I would . . . ,” I trail off timidly.
“Chinese?”
“What? No!”
“Pizza?”
“ Wha—”
“Pizza? Really?”
“Let me explain. I was tired after all the walking—”
“Fat people often struggle with exercise at first,” Janice says directly.
“Janice, please don’t use the
f
word!”
“The fact that you don’t want me to say the word
fat
shows how many issues you have with your fat. But hey, it’s your fat, and if you want to pretend it’s not there, adding to it with pizza, negating all the hard work we’re doing, fine. Go ahead,” Janice says patronizingly. “All I know is that when I was fat, I would have loved to have someone like me to help.”
I don’t have it in me to argue with her; there’s no point. I mainline fruit as quickly as possible, answering with a hunk of pineapple hanging out the left side of my mouth.
“I’m sorry; it will never happen again.”
“Hey, don’t apologize to me. It’s your ass,” Janice replies coolly, adding to the errand list. I can already tell that she’s going to punish me with an extra-strenuous day of walking. I hate her. I loathe her for making me feel bad and I despise myself because she’s right. I hope she chokes on a piece of fruit so I can lecture her on the importance of
Hello Fatty,
You are full. Actually, you were full before you even started with the pizza, you fat ass. Stop eating. Stop eating. Stop eating, Fatty!!! Think of FG!! She’ll be so disappointed, you nasty cow.
— Anna
I override my body’s voice and order a third slice. I am now inebriated on fat. I’ve lost the ability to speak. I hit the counter with my fist, nod at mole man, and lay down three dollars. I fold the slice, drain the oil, shove, and swallow. After three slices, my stomach is swollen and painful. I wobble home with thoughts of mutilation and vomit. Ill, mentally and physically, I set my alarm to ensure I have enough time to wash off the pizza smell. The situation is analogous to a cheating man washing away the scent of his mistress before his wife gets home, except not nearly as exciting.
The communal bathroom is empty at 7:00, when I begin my degreasing session. I stand naked except for the shower sandals, massaging my hair and body aggressively, rinsing away any lingering pizza aroma. Seated on the L train, I perform a quick breath check. I worry that a burp or hiccup could ruin everything in a second, exposing my terrible lapse. I immediately decide to keep myself outside a four-foot radius around Janice.
“Hello,” Janice yells out as I enter D&D.
“Hi,” I meekly respond, watching her lay out fruit and black coffee. I look over my list of errands for the day, excited to leave as soon as possible. Janice watches me suspiciously, invisibly shelving her maternal role for that of the food bitch.
“Anna, what did you have for dinner last night?” she asks with studied casualness.
I should have prepared something; I was too preoccupied with the smell factor. “Oh . . . a lot of water . . . and steamed . . . broccoli . . . with rice . . . brown rice,” I stammer.
Janice places a piece of pineapple into her mouth, all the while keeping her eyes trained on me. “How long did you cook the rice?”
“Um . . . I would guesstimate that it was about ten minutes,” I stutter awkwardly. Rice! Why would I choose rice? I’ve never made rice except for Uncle Ben’s, which cooks in the microwave.
“How many cups?”
“Um . . . three.”
“Anna, if you ever get married, don’t cheat. You are a terrible liar.”
Ignoring the true meaning of the comment, I ask, “Do you think I’ll get married?”
“What did you really eat for dinner?”
“Not that I’m obsessed with getting married, because I’m not. I’ve never even bought a wedding magazine before. I was just wondering if you thought I would . . . ,” I trail off timidly.
“Chinese?”
“What? No!”
“Pizza?”
“ Wha—”
“Pizza? Really?”
“Let me explain. I was tired after all the walking—”
“Fat people often struggle with exercise at first,” Janice says directly.
“Janice, please don’t use the
f
word!”
“The fact that you don’t want me to say the word
fat
shows how many issues you have with your fat. But hey, it’s your fat, and if you want to pretend it’s not there, adding to it with pizza, negating all the hard work we’re doing, fine. Go ahead,” Janice says patronizingly. “All I know is that when I was fat, I would have loved to have someone like me to help.”
I don’t have it in me to argue with her; there’s no point. I mainline fruit as quickly as possible, answering with a hunk of pineapple hanging out the left side of my mouth.
“I’m sorry; it will never happen again.”
“Hey, don’t apologize to me. It’s your ass,” Janice replies coolly, adding to the errand list. I can already tell that she’s going to punish me with an extra-strenuous day of walking. I hate her. I loathe her for making me feel bad and I despise myself because she’s right. I hope she chokes on a piece of fruit so I can lecture her on the importance of
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