Page 8 of The Husband Diet
‘Look,’ he said apologetically. ‘I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but you have to face the facts here. A normal woman is a size ten.’
Had he done a study project on it? What did he consider normal? And was this what he’d been thinking all these years during which I gave birth to and nurtured his children – and him? That I wasn’t the size of a normal woman? And that loving the woman who had been by his side all these years required aneffort?
I stared at him, my heart falling, flailing, to the deepest part of me somewhere inside.
‘You won’t have sex with me because I’m big?’ I said, unable to believe it. ‘Don’t you think that’s being a little superficial?’
He shrugged, his eyes downcast. ‘Maybe. But I can’t keep lying to you. Your body is putting me off. I’ve begged you to lose weight. I’ve tried giving you all sorts of signs to make you understand.’
I snorted, too hurt to show how thin skinned I was. ‘You mean being an asshole was a sign?’
‘There’s no reason to be offensive now, Erica.’
‘Oh, because you’re paying me acompliment? You think living with you and all your hang-ups is easy?’
He shrugged again, unable, or unwilling, to elaborate.
‘Do you think it’s normal to act like this?’ I demanded. ‘Do you think every man in the world whose wife is a bit big acts like you do? I’ve seen other men adore their big wives.’
He sighed. ‘Contrary to what big women think, men don’t like all that flab.’
I blinked back the tears and his face softened.
‘Look, I’m sorry, but for years your mother and I have been asking you to do something about your weight.’
Which wasn’t true. They’d been bashing me about it, pushing all sorts of surgery at me. Stomach bypasses. Restrictive rings – the works. At home I had a whole library of brochures and printouts courtesy of the two of them.
‘I don’t want to undergo surgery, if that’s what you’re so subtly hinting at yet again,’ I snapped.
He groaned. ‘You know what? It’s late. I have to get up early tomorrow.’
‘You can’t just drop this bomb on me and then turn over and go to sleep. What kind of a monster are you?’
‘A tired, exhausted and fed up one,’ he sentenced, scooping up his pillows (all four of them) and leaving our bedroom with a slam of the door.
I sat in bed with my hands over my mouth, staring at my flannel pajamas swinging from the hook on the door. They seemed to say,See, stupid? You should have stuck with us and saved yourself the embarrassment.
I’d tried to skirt around the various issues of my teeth-grinding, talking in my sleep, hoping it was just a phase, but nothing. That was it. He’d spelled it out to me, loud and clear. It had boiled down to lose weight or lose him. This was his ultimate ultimatum.
I honestly hadn’t seen it coming and now I wasn’t sure how traumatizing the latter result would be, to be honest.
When a man is no longer interested in what’s under your dress, there’s no amount of cooking, ironing or candlelit dinners that will save the day. Once he’s off you (literally, too), he’s off you for good. Never mind all the efforts you’ve made to try to see him as George Clooney. Never mind all the sacrifices you’ve made, period.
Outside, the iris bulbs I’d planted were somewhere deep in the ground, under three inches of the first snow, enveloped in the cold dark earth, practically dead until the first warmth caressed them back to life. In spring, they’d sprout and bloom, as beautiful as ever, right on cue. But it was going to be a long winter.
I leaned out the window, taking in the silent white world that was my dormant garden, and remembered one night on a Sicilian beach when, as a child, I’d had to pick my way through campfires and couples making out. Even my cousins who had brought me along had disappeared. That sense of loneliness had overwhelmed me then and now, instead of snow-filled clouds, I saw starry Sicilian skies and smelled the smoke from the campfires from so many years ago.
My husband doesn’t want to make love to me anymore.
How had Ira and I changed so much? There were so many hidden feelings between us and the good ones were rapidly fading like stars at dawn.
Maybe being thinner would make a difference between us. I’d tried everything else and nothing had worked. If I lost weight, it would improve my life on all levels and it would bring me back to life. But would it bring the old Ira back into my bed? Just how badly did I want him back there? Surely I’d forget him if I had to. Just like my mattress that didn’t have memory foam technology, meaning it was as if Ira never had been in my bed at all. I, too, could erase him from my memory, as if he’d never existed. Could I do it if it came to that?
3
Jump to Stage Four?
‘Dump him!’ my best friend, Paul, exclaimed as we lugged our delicatessen food home.
