Free The Makedown by Gitty Daneshvari

the whole thing?”
    “Yes,” I say guiltily.
    I feel quite full as I swallow chunks of self-respect.
    “Are you mad at me?” Janice asks with genuine concern.
    “No, why would you say that?”
    “We made it past the fifteen-pound mark, and now to go out and do this. It feels personal.”
    “Not at all. But Janice, losing fifteen pounds depressed me. I look exactly the same. Do you realize how fat you have to be to look the same after losing fifteen pounds?”
    “I know, I know, but people are noticing. At the Adelman benefit, Juan told me you were starting to look like a heavier Janeane Garofalo. Now if that’s not progress, what is?”
    “Who is Juan? And how is being a fat Janeane Garofalo good?”
    “He’s the dishwasher, and he’s about the height of your breasts, so he has a pretty good vantage point. For someone with no friends, you sure don’t make much of an effort to learn anyone’s names.”
    “I’m sorry, I thought his name was . . . okay, I never knew his name. Sorry.”
    “I understand, I do. However, you’re still going to drink an extra liter of water and jump rope for as long as it takes me to prep the enchiladas.”
    “Okay, Janice,” I say contritely.
    Janice’s obsession with my eating habits ceases while cooking, as she encourages me to taste everything. Of course, jump rope is mandatory on food-prep days. Only where pastries are concerned does Janice enforce a hard-line policy of no tasting. Moreover, if a tray of baked goods is out, she watches it like a hawk, often re-counting the items several times an hour. It’s silly, since I would never eat anything naughty while she is in a five-mile radius. I don’t even want to
think
of what cruel and unusual punishment she would send my way.
    Janice’s uncanny ability to tell when I’m lying has forced me to contain all binge eating to Friday nights. The weekend is required to practice my “truth” before Monday morning’s inquisition. The remorse of junk food and lying overwhelms me, filling pages in Hello Fatty on Saturday and Sunday.
    Hello Fatty,
    It’s been exactly seven days since my last grotesque bender of nachos with extra cheese, sour cream, and guacamole plus two strawberry milkshakes and a side of fries. I stare down at my stomach, imagining all the lumps of lard clogging my arteries and destroying my chances of ever having sex again. I worry that they will need a garbage can to contain my ashes after I am gone. I am thinking of specifying saving only a tiny amount of ashes in a small urn. I may not fit into much in life, but I sure as hell am not letting that happen in death.
    Sincerely,
    Anna, the Fattest Girl in the Tristate Area
    It’s a sad state of affairs, but unfortunately, I can’t stop. Sometimes late into the Friday feast, it actually hurts to cram food into my shrinking stomach, but I continue. Like an addict using to maintain, I balloon one night a week as part of a recurring exercise in masochism. Even the threat of Janice’s examination doesn’t stop the shove fest.
    “Friday night dinner?” Janice asks, eyeing my lower body closely.
    “Salad bar at Whole Foods,” I say without any affec-
tation.
    “Which one?”
    “Union Square,” I respond without skipping a beat. Having the weekend to digest my crimes makes all the difference in the world.
    “Paper or plastic?” Janice asks quickly, hoping to catch me off guard.
    “Paper. Better for the planet.”
    Janice nods and rubs her chin like a character in a cartoon, perplexed by the situation. “Saturday breakfast?”
    I passed the Friday night test! Onto Saturday! Stay calm. Show no emotion, or I will blow my cover.
    After enduring an elaborate inquisition on my eating and drinking habits over the weekend, I begin my daily errands. I pass through the Village, before making my first stop at Balducci’s, in Chelsea, then stopping at the organic produce mart, then onto a small butcher next to MSG, then Zabar’s on the Upper West Side, and