She goes to a closet and pulls out a mushy foam bodysuit. I lift my arms so she can wrap it around me. A tug here, apull there, a little prodding and pushing as she molds it into a tight fit, lifting my breasts so they slide into the large, heavily padded round cups. Then she closes the whole thing with Velcro. I look in the wall mirror.
And lo and behold, it’s my old body! The one I ballooned up to after I was canned from the FBI. A wave of nostalgia hits me. It’s like bumping into an old friend.
Today’s bodysuit is designed to make me look bigger than I ever was, as matronly as humanly possible. And it does. Over the years, I used to think there was a thin person living inside me. Today, it looks like there aretwothin people.
“What’s my bra size in this?” I ask.
“Is forty-two G.”
“Bingo!” I say. Ingrid looks confused. I guess bingo isn’t big in Vyazemsky.
“Walk,” she says. So I do. After a few tentative steps in my new bodysuit, I begin to wobble. Not good. I’ve got to get used to this new girth before I show up for my job interview tomorrow. But it’s a little daunting. What happens if the foam suddenly slips or the Velcro comes loose? And what if I stand too close to a candle? Another thing to worry about—I’m suddenly flammable.
Ingrid goes to a different closet and pulls out a few very large white polyester nurse-type uniforms. Short-sleeved, of course—the least flattering look a huge bust can have.
“Now is time for hair,” she says, examining my scalp. Ingrid sees me wince.
“I just had my roots done a few days ago,” I tell her, already mourning the loss of my beloved L’Oréal Frosted Chestnut.
Ingrid nods sympathetically. “I will put back,” she promises, “when time is ready.” She shows me a color chart. Who knew there were so many shades of gray to choose from? I point to the one that looks the most glamorous: marble gray (medium gray with some shiny pewter tones). But Ingrid shakes her head. She taps her finger on ash gray—dull gray with some black strands mixed in haphazardly. She wants me to look as drab as tarnished silver.
“And now is time for face,” she says. Clearly, when Ingrid was learning English, she must have been absent the day they taught pronouns. She sits me in front of a makeup mirror and demonstrates what I will have to do every morning: cover up what’s good and emphasize what’s bad. With a tiny brush, she fills in all my wrinkles with brown eyeshadow. She does the same with my crow’s-feet and laugh lines, extending them down to add droopiness. She rubs highlighter on my undereye bags to make them puffier. Then she smooths it all out with a rubber cosmetic wedge.
Going from bare face to old hag takes all of three minutes. Good for when I have to do it myself every morning.
Not so good for my ego.
Like Michelangelo surveying the Sistine Chapel, Ingrid evaluates her work.
“Is nice,” she says.
Is she kidding?
I really wouldn’t blame the cartel if they decided to cut off my head.
CHAPTER 7
NO WONDER HUMPTY-DUMPTY FELL off the wall.
Later, at home, I practice walking in front of a mirror in my bodysuit and sensible rubber-soled nursing shoes. After a while, I think I’ve got the wobbling under control. But as I look in the mirror, I have to smile. Thanks to Ingrid, I’m more invisible than ever. So why not indulge in one of my favorite childhood fantasies?
An entire day when I can eat anything I want.
Forget the organic offerings at Whole Foods. That’ssoyesterday. Today, my first stop is the 7-Eleven. I’m usually in and out in the time it takes to grab a bottle of Poland Spring. But this time, it’s all about their glazed cheesy barbecue meatballs, a couple of mini-tacos, and a package ofblueberry mini-muffins. (Thanks to sodium propionate and other artificial preservatives, it’s probably the same package I’ve been eyeing for months.)
Then it’s on to my neighborhood supermarket. With the zeal of a new convert, I grab a shopping cart, zip past the items labeledHIGH-PROTEINandSUGAR-FREEandLOW-SALTas if they readDANGER,and head to the aisles where I can cause the most damage. Anything fried, buttered, or dipped in chocolate is fair game. It’s a Festival of Carbs, starring (in no particular order) Jimmy Dean egg and cheese croissants, Spudsy Sweet Potato Puffs, frozen White Castle Classic Cheese Sliders, and some brand-new Ben & Jerry flavors.
Slightly out of breath, I examine the contents of my cart with glee. It’s a nice mix of things I remember from my childhood (Fudgsicles, peanut butter crackers) and things I never knew existed until today (butternut squash ravioli, coconut shrimp korma, hot chicken breast fries).
For a woman whose life has been spent bouncing up and down between diets, I feel like I’ve been given a get-out-of-jail-free card. In a race against time, before everything melts, I head to checkout. It’s way too much for me to carry, but I don’t want to have it delivered or use my credit card. Guilt overwhelms me. I don’t want them to know who I am. I pay in cash and dart out, bundles in hand, in search of a cab so I can make a quick getaway.
I’ve drooled so much, I want to leave before I hear them announce,Cleanup, aisles five through nine.
CHAPTER 8
FROM EVERYTHING I’D LEARNED so far about the Harrisons, I figured their house would be some kind of McMansion. I was wrong.
It’s what a McMansion wants to be when it grows up.
