Free The Makedown by Gitty Daneshvari Page A

finally back to the Lower East Side. Janice wants me to exercise. All the time. Well, except when I’m drinking water. By the following Friday night, I’m salivating at the thought of my junk food bender. Seven days without junk is hard. By day four, I’ve got cramps; by day six, cold sweats; and by day seven, all of the above. I realize my weight loss would increase if I stopped binging, but I can’t. Beyond the physical repercussions such as delirium tremens, total junk food eradication would leave me with a bleak mental reality. Without the promise of pizza, donuts, Doritos, and Oreos, what would I have to look forward to? As it is, I have trouble making it to Friday evening, often twitching with anticipation all afternoon. By 4:30 or 5:00, the tantalizing proximity of the drug makes it near impossible to concentrate.
    “Um, hey, I’m going to leave a little early today. You know, beat the Friday traffic,” I mutter quietly.
    “Is everything okay?” Janice asks skeptically.
    “Yeah, of course.”
    “You seem a bit nervous. Paranoid, almost.”
    “Paranoid? Nervous? Me? Not at all. I don’t want to be sandwiched between two smelly emos on the L train. Nothing paranoid about that. I’m protecting myself. I mean, really, who wants to rub elbows with stinkers.”
    “Okay,” Janice says distrustfully. “Enjoy the roomy ride home. See you Monday.”
    Janice is onto me, I’m sure of it. My palms sweat intensely, causing my hand to slip off the subway’s metal pole. Passengers crash into me as the car rocks along the tracks before stopping in the dark tunnel. Hundreds of feet below the East River, we wait, dripping all over one another. People moan with frustration and simmering panic as seconds turn to minutes. I remain lost in my own world, even as the train starts up again and my fellow riders cheer; I am unable to think of much beside Janice’s peculiar expression when I left the office.
    Once in my apartment, I think of all the different options available: pizza, eggplant parmigiana, donuts, egg rolls, and more. My fingers ache to dial, but something stops me. I am torn between two mes— the one who’s emerging and the one I’ve always been. Even though I vowed to give up on the transformation, I can’t deny that the tiny improvements I have seen have lit the torch of faith again. Maybe not a torch, but at the very least a match of faith is burning. I still yearn to be a regular girl eating cake on her birthday but declining the rest of the year. To be this girl, I must break up with junk food. However, I wonder if breaking up with food warrants one last night of sex before moving on. A farewell dinner, if you will, to signify the end of an era. I must share this monumental moment with someone. A close friend would be appropriate; unfortunately I only have one. It’s moments like this that I wish I hadn’t lost contact with Nut; then I wouldn’t have to force my brother into the role of friend. Honestly, he’s not very good at being an older brother, let alone a friend, but he’s my only option for “sharing this moment.”
    “Hello?”
    “Barney? It’s Anna.”
    “Anna who?” Barney asks doubtfully.
    “Anna your sister, Barney.”
    “What month is your birthday?”
    “Why?” I respond with frustration. This is exactly why I don’t call home more often; my family is far too weird.
    “This is a security question; if you want to talk to me, you’ll have to answer it.”
    “May.”
    “Hey Anna, what’s happening?” Barney says warmly, immediately changing his tone.
    “What’s with the security question?”
    “I had to abort a relationship with a lady, and she’s been pretty desperate to get her man back,” Barney says proudly.
    “You were seeing someone?” I ask jealously.
    “I’ve been seeing a lot of people, if you know what I mean.”
    “Wait, you mean you’ve been dating people? Did you get a standing reservation at Olive Garden for this parade of women?” I ask