LITMIR.BIZ

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cream cheesecake, to me, from, guess who? That was followed by a voice-mail message—“When your dancing fever subsides, call your publisher about lunch.”

      “Tex might be on to you,” Tamara tells me after lunch one day.

      This is not a particularly welcome development. “What did he say?”

      I get the whole conversation verbatim.

      “Something’s up with Maggie,” Tamara says he told her one day while she was sitting with him and Larry. “But I don’t know what.”

      “I looked at him straight-faced,” Tamara says. “I asked him what he meant.”

      “She hasn’t been herself lately.”

      “Probably something you said.”

      “Can’t think of anything,” Tex says, “but yeah, it doesn’t take a lot to get women pissed. Once at a party, I got a drink for myself, but forgot to get my date one.” He nods his head, as if remembering. “I walk back to her and she says, ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might want something to drink?’ I said, ‘I didn’t think you wanted one,’ then she pushes right past me and says, ‘Right, you didn’t think.’”

      Then Larry chimes in. “Great material, we should write a screenplay. Once, I bought a gift for a woman. This black lace nightgown, great, sexy, I couldn’t wait to see her in it.” He shakes his head. “How was I supposed to know she wasn’t an extralarge?”

      “Observant, aren’t you, Larry?” I say. Tex laughs.

      “So she takes it back for a small and finds out that it was the last one and came off the clearance rack.” Larry looks down at his drink and mixes it with his finger and then licks his finger. “So she says, ‘The one thing I hate is men who are cheap and stupid!’ So I said, ‘That’s two things.’”

      Tex nods his head. “Yeah, the old one-two punch.” His voice trails off. “I think there’s some basic resentment of the opposite sex. It bobs along the surface until one day, propelled by some deep seismic forces, it explodes in your face.”

      “PMS,” Larry says.

      “No, that’s not it with Maggie. She’s just distant…less eager to eat out. She’s even starting to look different.”

      “Different?” I say. “What do you mean by different?”

      “I’m enjoying baiting him, Maggie. He is so unbelievably dense sometimes.”

      “I’m not sure,” Tex says, as though he’s afraid to divulge what he’s thinking.

      So Larry pipes up.

      “Better,” he said. “Maybe she’s on a diet.”

      “Nah, impossible,” Tex says. “Not old trencher woman Maggie. She never diets or takes off for spas like some of the women I know.” He shakes his head. “She doesn’t think about things like that. That’s the great thing about her.”

      “Absolutely right,” I say. “You guys read her stuff. Maggie doesn’t diet.”

      “Take her out for ribs,” Larry says. “See what’s up.”

      “I looked at them both, trying hard to keep from laughing,” Tamara says. “If these two geniuses were directing the investigative reporting at the paper, then the Times, the Daily News and the Post could rest assured that they had nothing to fear.”

      six

      FedEx parks the wardrobe-size box in my building lobby with the doorman. No more nights spent cuddled up by the TV. No more evenings sprawled on the bed facing a snack tray with BBQ Pringles, Snyder’s of Hanover homestyle pretzels, Entenmann’s chocolate doughnuts and Diet Coke. From now on I’d be quaffing Fiji Water and snacking on orange wedges. NordicTrack time. The Dominican handyman rolls it up to my apartment door on a dolly and hauls it into the bedroom.

      He looks at the box and laughs. “Everybody buy these things, these equipments, but nobody use them.”

      “Well, it’s good to stay in shape.” How would I know? He looks at me, shaking his head, laughing, as if I told him a good joke.

      After a lightning-quick smile, I double-lock the door behind him. It would probably be fun. I’d make it fun. Sliding, gliding. I’m not the most coordinated person in the world, but I’d get the knack of it. I am a quick study.

      I change into my sole pair of cycling shorts, which were secreted in the back of my drawer years ago. I start to tug them on, but when I stretch the waistline apart, it stays that way. I fling them into the garbage. At least my dresser drawers are getting roomier. I pull on a dress-length STOP HUNGER T-shirt, sweat socks and sneakers.

      I tuck my feet into the toeholds, reflexively stiffening up as I slide forward, then back. Thighs make up one-quarter of women’s weight. Indeed. The effort brings me back to my first riding lesson and the resistance before it flowed. I was stiff, uncoordinated. Maybe if I try to relax and move a little faster, smoother. The phrase fluid movement comes to mind, whatever that means.

      I step up the pace but the machine begins working against me now, like a frisky horse that senses the unease of a new rider and starts to snort and buck. Like Mr. Ed—the first horse I was on at Camp Camelot, a weight-loss camp. When other kids were munching on bags of buttery popcorn at the movies, we walked in with Ziploc bags filled with sour pickles on sticks. Anyway, my Mr. Ed was named after the funny-talking horse on the ’60s TV show. Okay, maybe I’m heavy, and unsteady, but this Scandinavian-style Mr. Ed is starting to list and then lean and then… Ohhhhhhhhh, shit, I inadvertently lose my balance and vrooooooom, never mind riding, I am s-k-i-i-n-g over to the side as if part of a giant slalom.

      Mr. Ed crashes down on me with the weight of a work-horse, viciously slamming into my poor dimpled upper thigh.

      “JESUS, OH JESUS.” It feels as if I just took a bullet. I can only imagine what my downstairs neighbor is imagining as she hears the deafening crash. She probably expects my couch to come barreling through her ceiling any minute.

      I rub and rub the spot to prevent it from turning blue and magenta, and hobble to the refrigerator for ice. I deserve a Sara Lee cheesecake for this. Or half a carrot cake. It’s not fair. I have the noblest intentions, and it backfires. But I’m not going to be a self-saboteur. I grab a giant bag of frozen corn kernels and wrap it around my thigh like a blood pressure cuff.

      I glare at the NordicTrack. I am not having fun. This is not about fitness, it is about pain and suffering. I feel desperately sorry for myself. All around the city, other women are dining out at restaurants, sitting in box seats at the opera, attending Broadway shows, or having marvelous mindless sex, and I’m here sweating like a pig with a black-and-blue mark the size of Texas tattooing my upper thigh. I want candy, a Milky Way. But there’s no way I can even think of going out for one like this. I call Duane Reade.

      “Do you deliver?” YES, there is a God. “Good. I’d like a Milky Way.

      “A Milky Way. A MILKY WAY, you know the CANDY bar. Haven’t you ever heard of it?” I cannot believe this. Is that such a hard question?

      “Sorry? What do you mean, by ‘sorry’? Why can’t you deliver it? I realize that it’s not medicine…okay…okay…but you happen to be wrong, dear heart, it most definitely does serve a biological need.

      “So how much do I have to spend before you’ll deliver it? What?” I slam down the phone.

      I lie back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. Why am I doing this? Is it worth it? Maybe I will never get anywhere with the damn makeover anyway. Why am I putting myself through this punitive fitness crap? Am I a masochist? I want candy. I want to be happy. I don’t like fucking cut-up vegetables. I don’t want hot broth without noodles, and I happen to like the crispy chicken skin. It kills me to peel it off and throw it away, especially if it’s sprinkled with salt and garlic.

      But

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