Slim to None (25 page)

He nods his head. "I have to admit I forgot what being pampered feels like. It’s not so bad after all. I could get used to it. Minus that part where they ripped off a layer of flesh from my back."

"Oh, that? I didn’t think you’d notice. But Sally will, trust me." I wink at him. He shakes his head at me. "Next on the list is clothing. Can’t have you showing up in William’s baggy clothes."

This time we hop a cab to mid-town, where I take him to a haberdashery William favors and get him suited up with a few outfits. By the time I’m done with George, he’s truly a new man.

"You sure you want to go back to the park tonight, George? You know I’m gonna make you clean up at my brownstone before the party on Saturday, don’t you?"

"I need to say goodbye to some of the guys," he says.

"Fine, but I’m taking all of your new things to my place for safekeeping—deal?"

"Deal."

"And you promise to show up at my place Saturday by nine? Gives us time to get you all spiffed up, right?" I write down the address and tuck it into his hands.

* * *

When I get back, I decide to email in my column this week, as I just haven’t drummed up the interest in dealing with the office fallout over Barry’s demise. Happy it happened, sure, but not quite sure ultimately at this point that I give a care about my old job. Amazing, I know. But I owe it to my readers to keep up the dialogue, as word has it I’ve garnered a bit of a fan base. Now if I ever get really skinny I wonder if I’ll lose them, if I stop talking about weighty matters. Because it is interesting how people receive you once you’ve lost an obvious amount of yourself...

Hair Today, Thin Tomorrow

Or:

The Complex Mathematical Properties of Haircuts in Relation to Weight Gain

Did you ever notice that when you’ve lost a lot of weight, people start asking you if you’ve had your hair cut? Isn’t that a strange phenomenon—as if the appearance of your head has been minimized by the disappearance of your body. Which is actually odd, considering those really, really anorexic-thin girls have gargantuan heads in comparison to their bodies.

It’s a funny thing when you lose weight. People start to heap praise on how awesome you look, which always leaves us to wonder exactly how horrid they thought we looked before the weight loss. Interesting correlation between this and haircuts, actually, as now that I think of it, I can recall many times in my life when I cut my hair, only to have people gush about how wonderfully it looked, and sometimes even outright telling me it looked awful before. I can’t ever recall having anyone compliment me on my weight gain, though. Bummer there.

I have also observed over the years that there seems to be some sort of nefarious pound inflation occurring in the world. Kind of like the SATs and college grades where you do less and gain more. After all, let’s face it, a 1300 in the SATs nowadays can’t compare to a 1300 score from 25 years ago. And in the same vein, it seems now that weight is more now than it was before. Like 150 pounds today is heavier than 150 pounds used to be. Could that actually be possible? Or am I just reaching for straws? And is there truly a phenomenon of being "big-boned"? Or is that merely a passé and more genteel euphemism for being fat?

Don’t you remember long ago when Liz Claiborne created generously proportioned sizes? When you could have a size-10 body but her label would read a size-6? What happened to those days of garment goodwill? It was so emboldening to be able to say with confidence that I fit a size six. Wait a minute, hmmm, then perhaps that size six I was 15 years ago wasn’t truly a size six. Maybe I’ve never been a size six? Could that be? And would I rather be a non-size six size-six than be Mary Kate Olsen in eating disorder rehab? So many questions, so few answers.

I do know this: I remember a time in my life when 125 pounds seemed like an obscenely high weight. Now it seems like nirvana. Valhalla. Arriving at the Elysian fields. A state I will only reach when something dreadful happens to me. Which leads to this point: find me someone who wouldn’t rather be plump and healthy than thin and wasting away from disease.

I have a male friend who wrestles with weight problems. A good looking guy, I noticed over the past several months that he’s been slimming himself down to a fraction of his former self, so I asked him what his secret was. Well, I learned that he is on a green grass diet. He’s eating lots and lots of grass. Wheat grass, I guess. But grass, nonetheless. And that’s pretty much his diet: the meadow. Man, if that’s the only way I can lose weight, well, then, I think you’d better just put me out to pasture. Moo.

Another way I have devised to boost my morale on this weight issue is to refer to my size only by British standards. If I tell people I’m eight stones, or ten or whatever, I’m bound to flummox them. Who the hell knows how much a stone is? So I can put to rest the issue with that simple vague yet mysterious term: the stone. Don’t ask me the US equivalent, because I don’t know. And even if I did, I’m not gonna tell you. And even if I knew it, I’d struggle to calculate it, because I’m a failure in mathematics. Which perhaps explains my weight issues yet again: maybe I have a hard time assessing proper portion size because of my shortcomings with calculating. Yeah, yeah, I think I’ve hit on it. Because I’m bad in math, I’m fat.

* * *

As I head off to bed I notice I’ve got a message on my answering machine, so I play it back: a tearful, despondent-sounding Jess, reneging on her sous chef commitments in between gasping sobs. She called from JFK, where she was about to board a flight to St. Lucia. Seems that Jess found out the hard way that not only is Dr. Dex married, with children, but he’s got another one on the way. So much for Dex and his Hippocratic anything.

I know I should be angry with her about this. What kind of friend would ditch me when she knew how badly I needed her, particularly under the terms of our agreement? But I know that beneath her happy façade, Jess is ultimately a terribly lonely woman, and I understand lonely. Fact is, I wish I could do something to help her out, but I know that she’s going to have to do it on her own. Maybe licking her wounds under the tropical sun will be a good way to start.

Her message ended on this: "I just have to get out of this city before I crack, Abbie. I knew you’d understand." And she’s right. I
do
understand. Because a part of
me
wants to get out of this city in the worst way, and I probably would have, had I not had a dog in rehab uptown and a husband MIA somewhere in the city (I think). Right now I’m the hub of it all, if and when they both return to me, and I don’t want to be hard to find.

Of course this leaves me in quite the lurch, what with a large volume of food being delivered to my brownstone by a few select purveyors tomorrow and only me to figure out how to get it table-ready in time for Saturday.

I guess I could always hope for a miracle.

I look out the window and see a full moon high in the sky. It reminds me of some Snapple facts I’d forgotten about. Relevant Snapple facts for gals like me: a one-minute kiss burns twenty-six calories; chewing gum burns twenty calories per hour; you weigh less standing directly beneath the moon.

Alas, nobody nearby to kiss, but just for good measure I stuff a stick of gum in my mouth and go outside for a few minutes. It’s one way to be a little lighter, at least for the moment.

Warm up Reluctant Spouse, Sprinkle with Sugar

I’ve decided to launch my day early and energized, with a trip to the gym. Rumor has it Thor has something in store for me this morning. I’m sure it’s nothing edible. When I arrive there, well before dawn, I see Thor in his usual spot. He’s drumming the calipers against his thigh this time.

"Please say you aren’t going to use those on me," I say, my eyes squinting in fear.

"Do you remember what I said about when we use calipers, Abbie?" he asks.

"Uh, to measure globs of body fat?" Not to be gross, but still.

"And when we see noticeable changes in body size." He looks me up and down and gives me the thumbs up. "You, dudette, are kicking weight-loss ass and it’s time to prove it."

I can’t believe I am voluntarily offering myself up for the calipers. But here I am. As I stick out my arms like Christ on the cross, I can’t believe what all has happened since I stood here so many months ago. So many changes in my life. Not all for the better, but changes nonetheless. I suppose change is better than stagnant. Unless you’re a swamp-dweller.

I squeeze my eyes tightly, hating to watch the process.

"You should see this, Abbie," Thor says. "I can barely grab your skin in some places compared to the first time."

By the time Thor finishes I have a small audience of ooer’s and ahh’ers. Everyone is patting me on the back for the inches I’ve lost.

"And more importantly, Abbie, look at these guns!" He squeezes my biceps. "You are a lean, mean fighting machine!"

"Sheesh, I don’t know if I’m exactly lean, but I’m trying," I say. "And I have to give you a lot of credit for believing in me. I couldn’t have done it without you."

Thor taps me on my head. "Wrong. You couldn’t have done it without you."

I guess he’s right. It did take me to be involved in the process. Me and a whole lot of circumstances, I guess.

After thirty minutes on the treadmill, I have to rush out of my workout to get back to an enormous amount of work facing me.

* * *

Spending any amount of time in an empty brownstone is like cooking for one: without that communality, that sense of sharing, it’s just lonely. It doesn’t help that Cognac’s not even here to create at least some noise. The place is like a mausoleum. Throw in all those flower arrangements and it’s like a damned funeral home too.

Welcome to my new reality—cooking solo. But even if I plunged way off the deep end and decided to cook for the dog, for lack of anyone else for whom to cook—I could make some doggy biscuits (though really, who’s got time to make beef stock for dog food?)—it lacks the conviviality of sharing with William. I miss him, and I wish he were here so I could talk through what I’m supposed to do with this crazy meal I’ve obligated myself into but cannot complete without help, what with all of the miscellaneous family Sally’s thrown onto the guest list. I’m sure William would have a great solution to my problem. Though knowing him at this point it would involve my birthing a baby.

I walk into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, hoping that will take the edge off of things. I fill the kettle with cold water and set it on the stove, turning the flame to high. I pull up a bar stool and plunk myself down, staring at the teapot, willing the water to boil, for lack of anything better to do. Not so long ago I’d not step foot in the kitchen without an arm-load of groceries and a clear plan of what I was going to cook—and subsequently eat. Now I don’t even have the stomach for a cup of black tea. Although the chamomile hibiscus oolong tea I bought a few weeks ago at Tea for Two might be nice and soothing, so I rifle through the food pantry to find it.

I pull down a china cup from a tea set that William got me for my birthday last year. I didn’t even know he realized I’d coveted the set that I’d noticed when we were buying a wedding gift for a colleague at Bloomingdale’s. And he went back to the store and bought it for me, hefty price tag and all. My mind drifts to too many happy times that William and I have shared over the years—countless times that he’s been so considerate like that. What the hell have I been doing, diddling around with his head? He’s made it abundantly clear to me that he’s tired of our static existence, that he’s ready for new things. Yet I’ve dug in, entrenched in what’s been comfortable, in the known, so afraid of what might be if we changed. If I changed. And now what do I have? Me. Just me. Who’s finally working on that concept of change, after all this time, but too late because William got sick of waiting for me.

I stir just a dash of honey into the tea and watch the water swirl around. What would the old Abbie do? Maybe bake a pie. Throw in a batch of snickerdoodles perhaps. Better yet, probably whip up some comfortable chicken pot pie, food that fits you like a pair of sweat pants. Stretchy ones. Anything to plug the hole. But I’m trying hard to get away from old Abbie. So what should the new Abbie do? Fight for what she wants and not just let events wash over her, that’s what. No longer be a passive participant, that’s what.

Resolved, I pick up the phone and punch in William’s speed dial number: number one. I’m not just going to let my number one go without a fight.

After far too many rings, I get his voice mail. My voice trembling, I leave a message:

"Baby, it’s me. Abbie. Your wife. Of course, you know that." I pause to take a sip of tea, slurping it in the process. "Sorry, didn’t mean to show such bad table manners. Well, not that it matters. You aren’t exactly Emily Post, are you? Oh, never mind my table manners. Look, William, I have so much to say. I hoped I’d get you and not a recording, but I better talk now before I lose the courage. So I know you’ve been exasperated with me. No, exasperated might be too weak a word at this point. Furious. Yes, furious. I know you’re furious with me. And I can understand. I haven’t exactly been much of a partner in this marriage, have I? I’ve been stubborn and selfish and I haven’t really thought about what’s most important to you because I was too busy thinking about my own needs. At least what I thought I needed. And I know that’s not a recipe for a happy marriage. And
trust me
, if there’s one thing I know about, it’s recipes." BEEP

Oh, crap. I hate those things when they cut you off. I dial back again, and hear his voice and now I’m starting to choke up. Great: stammering and crying on a time clock. The beeper goes off: "Sorry, got cut off on my little joke there. Okay, I guess I have to talk fast. I know I’ve been a jerk. I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry. But more important than that, I’ve learned some important things. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die. Well, I don’t
really
hope to die, because I’ve got so much I want to live for. You see, I’ve learned that I don’t want to—no, wait, I
can’t
—lose what’s most important to me. When Cognac was laying there with his little doggie IV in his arm and all that blood matting his fur and I stared at his bony little x-rays, God, it killed me to imagine losing him. Besides you, he’s about the most important thing to me. All right, maybe there’s something crazy about a dog being the second most important person in my life. Well, not that he’s a person, but you know what I mean. But what it made me realize is that the first most important person is someone I can’t afford to ever lose.
Ever
. And that’s you. I can lose the cupcakes and the fois gras and the decadent dinners and all of the material things, even my stupid job. But life without you isn’t worth a hill of beans. Ack, there I go talking food again. I mean I don’t want my life to be missing the most important ingredient in it. Life without you is like" BEEP

Dammit. Technology is such a bitch sometimes. I dial back again.

"I wish they had a special voice mail option for apologies, one that let you talk on and on.
If you would like to amend this message, press 8, if you would like to record an extended apology, press 9. And shame on you, for whatever you’ve done!
I don’t even know why I’m spending all this time talking to a voice mail. Especially when I’ve got to figure out how I am going to prepare a six-course dinner for forty people for tomorrow without anyone’s help. But that’s okay because you’re more important than anything as trivial as that. Look, what I started to say is life without you is like banana cream pie without the bananas—it just makes no sense. It’s missing the flavor, the texture, the main ingredient. You’re my main ingredient, William. I want you to know that. And I hope some day you’ll forgive me for being such a putz. And maybe you can realize that sure, I’m a putz, but I’m a putz in progress. And hopefully I’ll work my way toward being a mensch and I’ll prove to you I’m better than what I’ve shown you to date. I love you, William. I really do love you. And I’m growing up finally. And I’m ready to take responsibility in our marriage. I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me." BEEP

I return the phone to the cradle and survey my kitchen, mentally mapping out my plan of attack for preparing for the big dinner. My eyes are streaming tears as if I’ve been cutting raw onions. Of which I will be cutting plenty for George and Sally’s dinner party, so at least if I can’t turn off the waterworks, I can blame it on something other than my being a heartbroken dumpee (is that what you’re called when your husband drops you?).

I’ve got much to do before the courrier service arrives to deliver the food supplies after I get everything as prepared as I can for the dinner. Then it’ll be my job to rally George, re-clean him up and ferry him to Pound Ridge for some quiet time with Sally while I coordinate this dinner party for a platoon without any help. How I got myself into this one...Me and my brilliant ideas.

I don my banana split slippers, change into a pair of spiffy new yoga pants and matching workout top that doesn’t make me look too ridiculously lumpy, tie on my apron that reads
My Cooking: Love it or Heave
then set to work chopping onions, mushrooms and thyme and bringing to boil so many bottles of cabernet and port wine for my reduction sauce that I think I’ll be drunk on the fumes before the stuff has a chance to heat up on the stove. The sheer volume of what I need to cook for this will strain even
my
extensive stash of kitchen supplies, no doubt. I sure wish I had some kitchen elves to help keep up with the dirty dishes.

After I have the onions, mushrooms and thyme simmering in butter I peel ten pounds of jumbo shrimp for the appetizers. To think hundreds of shrimp died for this dinner—probably an entire undersea neighborhood of little shrimplets. It’s like shrimp genocide. I can’t even contemplate the cow carnage involved with this meal.

Do you know how tedious it is to peel and devein that many shrimp? This is where I need to stop being so fastidious and instead buy the already peeled version—I could have saved plenty of time had I not been so exacting. Nevertheless, Tartare’s happy about it, and meows repeatedly at my feet, demanding a share of the seafood tidings. Finally a little noise around this place. God, this is my future. Abbie Jennings, alone in the kitchen with her cat and a mountain of crustacean carcasses.
A cat lady!
I don’t want to be a cat lady. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you. It’s just not for me.

I refer to my detailed list of to-do’s, which I’ve carefully counted to the minute backward from the moment of serving. Sometimes it’s overwhelming the amount of detail needed to bring a perfect meal from idea to table. But I find I really enjoy the challenge of it, and the creativity is very rewarding. Plus it seems the more I cook, especially in large volume (and for someone else) the less I want to eat it myself. The food loses its charm en masse.

I begin to chop clove after clove of garlic, smashing each clove to remove the stubborn papery skin and then rendering them into a fine dice with the gentle rocking motion of my cook’s knife. As I cut, my eyes blur with tears, and this time I can’t blame the onions, which are cooking down to a lovely caramel color, fragrant with the sugar that slow cooking brings out, married with the perfume of thyme, the mushrooms lending an earthiness to them. Soon tears are dripping into the pile of garlic that’s accumulating on my cutting board. All this garlic reminds me of the time that William and I challenged each other to a garlic-eating contest when we were in Rome. Granted it was roasted garlic, spread over thin crostini, so it wasn’t quite as powerful. We lost count after about forty cloves. The two of us reeked for a week afterward.

I can’t taint the garlic with tears—if nothing else that seems like bad luck when I’m trying to help George get back together with his family. Serving tear-stained garlic mashed potatoes seems like bad ju-ju. I turn on the radio and as luck would have it the song is a perfect blend of mournful and suicidal. I collapse at the high counter and slump into a barstool, burying my head in my arms, my face plastered against the stark reality of the cold granite. The tears are accompanied by sobs now, with howling probably nipping at their heels. If Cognac was with me listening to that noise, he’d join in the chorus. God, I don’t know how I’m going to accomplish my immediate goal. It’s as if I have to translate a language for a foreign dignitary after having only studied it for a few months. Sure, I might get this done, but it’s going to be rough and regrettable. But in the bigger picture, I don’t know how I’m going to embrace life without William in it. There’s simply nothing about it that sounds joyful.

"Somebody call for a special delivery?"

I gasp instantly because no one’s supposed to be here but me, and reflexively I swing my arm around, making contact with William’s nose.