“Postcohab,” I murmur. “Postcohab.”
I VISIT MY FRIEND Andy, fifty-two, longtime former writer for an alternative weekly. It stayed weekly but gradually became less alternative. He has been single for over a decade now. In contrast to “A Room of Her Own,” Andy has gaily dubbed his 250-square-foot converted garage “The Palace of Failure.”
Handing me an espresso, he gives a tour. The Palace of Failure is like a small houseboat, packed with favorite books, DVDs, appliances. To the right are large monitors (TV and computer, flickering), in the middle is an unmade futon topped with wrinkled laundry and sleeping bag that appears to be breathing. To the left is a narrow landing strip of kitchen. It features a “tabletop convection oven” (big enough to bake pizza but not chicken) and ten-gallon water heater (“I can wash dishes or shower but not both”).
What’s breathing under the sleeping bag turns out to be Andy’s nineteen-year-old cat Mingus. Andy picks little pieces of fur off Mingus’s back and flicks them onto the rug.
“I’ll vacuum it tonight,” he says, “or maybe tomorrow.” The problem is, to get to the vacuum he has to open the closet door, blocked by his Casio Syndrums.
The rent strikes me as surprisingly high—$945 a month. Andy agrees. “But I don’t want to move Mingus. Moves disorient Mingus. Mingus deserves better.”
It strikes me that instead of the cat lady, we are in the era of the cat gentleman. “In nineteen years, we’ve been apart twenty, maybe thirty nights,” Andy reports.
His phone dings. He picks it up. “Snorlax!”
“Oh my God,” I say. “You play Pokémon GO, too!”
I can’t resist. I excitedly pick up my phone—and we spend the next three minutes catching the virtual Snorlax that has appeared in Andy’s virtual Palace.
At which point I see it: his pile of New York Times crosswords. Hm. Andy and I have more in common than I might have guessed. Which begs the question: Single, would I be Danielle or Andy?
It’s the Scared Straight of Singledom.
I DRIVE HOME around 5 p.m., pull into the driveway.
Charlie is sitting in the rocking chair on the porch, as though waiting for a homecoming sailor. He rises, his hand shading his eyes, as he looks searchingly into my face. He is wondering what my wayward mood is.
I’m tired. I’ve been a little spooked by Andy’s place. I know Charlie will enjoy hearing about it—the layout, the contents of the fridge, what kind of Syndrums? At thinking about the Snorlax, I can’t help cracking into a rueful smile.
We look into each other’s faces. He smiles, in his rakish, devil-may-care way. “Oh look,” he says, throwing his arms out, “it’s the return of Awesome Boyfriend!”
“Oh yeah?” I ask.
“Well, after my triumphant return from Mexico, where I started a small theater troupe doing English translations of Afrofuturist poetry—”
“And puppetry,” I add. ”Don’t forget the puppetry.”
“Oh, did you see my viral Snapchat story?” he asks casually. (Note: Charlie is on no social media at all, and never will be.)
“I gave thirty-seven dollars to your GoFundMe. The one from Spain. It was very moving.”
He pours us—or rather spigots us—some box red wine.
“Oh my God, the splatter,” I say. “But I love the pirate theme.”
“It’s new, at Von’s.” He swirls his glass vigorously. “You have to aerate it.”
“Should we take it into the yard?” I ask. “Run it around the block?”
And without further comment, we plop into our armchairs on the back porch. He puts out his customary small fussy bowls of nuts. They are Costco nuts in surfboard-shaped bowls and they are probably as tasty as those more wealthy WASPS have put out, over the decades, which perhaps is not saying much, but it’s saying something.
And, being for the moment, neither beyond divorce nor postcohab, I realize we do share a love. . . . But what is it?
It is less husband and wife. . . . He is certainly not like a “husband,” exactly, whom I cannot expect to “take care” of me. . . . And I am no “wife.”. . .
Nor either “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” . . . surely ridiculous terms, at this age? But we are friends, we are family, we are homemates. . . . We gravitate here to our customary formation and quadrants, as night falls. Our rhythm begins again, the glass(es) of wine, the nuts, the conversation.
Perhaps he’s my personal clown. I’ll research insurance rates on that in the morning.
Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes
The Hip
I’VE BEEN DRIVING the girls to school and back on a 6 a.m. to 7 p.m. schedule. To conserve my energy in the middle of the day, I’ve been going back to bed. I type on my laptop in bed.
I talk on the phone in bed. I eat in bed.
I fantasize about a car shaped like a bed.
One afternoon, I swing my legs right to get out of bed, my hip spasms, and I literally tumble to the floor with a crash.
Charlie has been down at his desk, doing what would previously have been a very un-Charlie thing: researching water heaters. After another blowout that neither of us could endure, he has dug deep within his mantric self and has been learning how to interface with my Second Husband, Angie. He is finding his own kind of Hindu system within her List.
Charlie dashes upstairs. “Honey, are you all right?” He helps me up off the ground and back on to the bed, lightly dusting me off.
“Oh my God,” I say. “This is literally the moment the elderly person takes a fall in their New York City apartment and are only found ten days later, their body half-eaten by wolves.”
He puts his hands on my shoulders.
“You’re not in New York City, and you’re not going to be eaten by wolves. Bedbugs, maybe. No! I’m calling your chiropractor.”
“Oh no!” I wail. “With this insurance I have? The copayment—”
“Shh,” he says. “You’re hurting. They can take you at three. I’ll drive you.”
Charlie could use an adjustment himself, so once again, it’s one of those romantic, middle-aged, dual-overdue-doctor’s-appointments “dates.”
My chiropractor is, in fact, a great first person to visit. She is unfailingly gentle, supportive, positive. I figure her stretching me will function as a kind of exercise. But no, even she says, “You need to start walking a few minutes a day. Park that car just a bit farther out in the lot. Move.”
But my hip is popped out. It is painful to walk.
So I decide to rejoin the gym and do Tuesday “gentle yoga.” I remembered that it’s taught by a lovely sad young woman named Shambhala. It’s lying down, stretching, breathing, basically hugging a pillow to soothing tabla music. Shambhala will murmur affirmations about world peace, saying be brave, be bold, be brilliant. At the end, everyone lies in corpse pose while Shambhala goes around and sprays eucalyptus oil over us. It’s yoga as spa treatment.
Afterward I can steam and shower and slather myself with Kiehl’s products, yet another form of exercise.
But no. There’s a sub in for Shambhala.
It’s Kelly, a tattooed African American former ballet dancer with a mellow voice of butter. Okay, he does seem very soothing.
“Intention,” he says. “Start your day with a certain intention.”
I like that it’s 10:30 in the morning and we are “starting our day.”
Saying “Om”—check.
Neck rolling because we slept wrong—check.
Downward-facing dog. My weak T-Rex arms wobble. It’s a little strenuous. I hope we won’t be here long.
For each pose, Kelly presents three versions. One is toe on ground. The second is toe slightly lifted. The third is a crazy pose that looks like a contortionist.
Some of these poses have weird names. I know child’s pose and happy baby. But the frog, dolphin, scorpion, or most horribly of all, bird of paradise? Then there’s the bridge into the wheel into the nuclear reactor or synchrotron.
Kelly offers one th
at goes like this: Lunge. Twist. Reach your arms around behind your back. I try to mimic what I saw the MILFs around me doing, but when I wrap my arms around my thigh there’s this huge trunk of flesh and I can’t think how to have my arms meet each other. I need a skinnier leg, or perhaps a half leg.
With a small yelp, I capsize.
I can’t do easy yoga. I groan. I lie capsized on the floor.
The Gynecologist
WORRIED WHETHER THERE’S something really wrong with me, something osteoarthritical, I break my three-year medical fast and go to the doctor.
I’m at that tender time of life where I avoid seeing the doctor because I can’t face being weighed. For Pete’s sake, it’s hard enough in middle age to gather courage to face all those worrisome tests, scans, lab results. (But no, then they throw you onto the scale like a terrified piece of beef cattle and then slap a cuff on you and immediately take your blood pressure after you’ve just seen your actual weight in red digital letters— “Why is your blood pressure so high?” they wonder.)
Why can’t doctors just glance at us, in our paper gowns, humiliating enough, and see whether our body types are active, medium, or relaxed fit? I acknowledge that there are pants I avoid, but I can still fit into my car to drive my kids. Why are doctors so curious to know our exact poundages? It’s the twenty-first century! I have GPS in my phone. They should be able to wave a wand over us—and keep the exact data to themselves. Inside a large underground bunker somewhere. In Canada.
But then Marilyn gives me this great suggestion: “Just step on the scale backward—and ask them not to say your weight aloud.”
So I do this and it works brilliantly! I bring out my inner middle-aged person monologue and hilariously regale all the nurses with my fears of being weighed, of dental work, and of flying, of mice. They’re all in stitches about it.
“You’re too much!” one says, while the other wipes tears of laughter and writes down some numbers on a clipboard. Come to think of it, they’ve got a few extra pounds as well. We should gather for a Groupon happy hour.
And then I laugh my way into my gown and onto the metal table—where my doctor is all about my weight.
“You want to know the number?” she says, leaning forward conspiratorially.
“No!”
She tells me anyway. I am the highest weight I’ve ever been, by a lot. The BMI has always seemed a relatively forgiving number, with a thirty-five-plus pound range of what’s “normal” for me. . . .
But now my BMI has tipped up into “unhealthy.” I am prediabetic.
I’m also way overdue for a colonoscopy.
When I freak out afterward to Julia, her words are reassuring: “I have to get a colonoscopy, too. We’ll be colonoscopy partners. Because, good news, with all the flushing out, we’ll lose all this weight!”
Down the Tubes
OKAY, IT IS TIME TO GET A COLONOSCOPY. NOW!!!
Upon my statement of intention, I’m instantly sure something’s wrong. I’m the sort of neurotic who secretly believes my actions control the universe. On airplanes, I hold the plane up by clutching the armrests. Remember the stock market dive of the 1990s? After seeing all my mutual funds plunge, I panicked and sold everything. Literally the very next day, the market recovered. Everything rose again, once I removed my small but plutonium-heavy anvil of funds. And you’re welcome! America.
So, I take a deep shaky breath, pick up the phone, call the gastroenterologist, utter my name. I’m shocked and relieved when the receptionist doesn’t immediately scream, “You’re Sandra LOH? It’s too late! Nooo!” Rather, she says it will take a few weeks to book the appointment, after I fill out some paperwork, which she’ll send to me like she would any other normal person. Hurray!
But here’s what happens. The colonoscopy paperwork arrives. It’s like fifty pages long. This may well be the most complex part of a colonoscopy—stifling your panic while you fill out endless forms. However, in the mess of my home, I somehow misplace my colonoscopy mini-Bible. In response to my fateful disorganization, my intestines (is that part of the colon?) feel like they’re twisting and on fire.
After two weeks of hunting, I give up, call the office and order another set. I place it immediately into my glove compartment. I’m driving to a hospital in Palmdale to visit my dad, who’s recuperating from a virus. Hours of boredom—a perfect opportunity for me to fill out my papers. I arrive at his bedside, pull out the forms, and realize my pen has run out of ink. “Nooooo!” I scream at the heavens, balling up my fists.
Unbelievably, I finally file the paperwork and am rewarded with a colon-cleaning “package” in the mail that includes Gatorade powder, chicken bouillon, and some other items too anatomically specific to mention. A date is set.
Thank God I have Julia! My Colonoscopy Partner! We’re doing this together! Joining hands! Metaphorically—thank God we’re doing this far from each other.
We cheerlead each other by phone: “You called the gastroenterologist! You made it through fifty pages of paperwork! You booked the appointment!”
For laughs, we send each other links to today’s all-too-explicit medical websites. In one, a cartoon character shaped like a colon gives you a video tour of a real-life messy colon. Actual dialogue: “Think of it this way: a clean colon is like driving on a country road on a sunny day. A dirty colon is like driving in a snowstorm.” Or actually, poop storm. This is a video I really wish I hadn’t seen. Then I wonder whose colon starred in it. Do they know we’re watching?
Those startling visuals are apparently what doctors feel they need to convince you to flush out your bowels properly. But there are some differences about how they interpret that.
“The week before, Dr. Wilson says, ‘No fish oil, nuts, seeds,’ ” I tell Julia.
“Really?” she says. “Dr. Abkarian says nothing about seeds, but he says no trail mix and no red meat.’ And the day before, while drinking the flushing-out Gatorade stuff, it’s a fast of clear liquids. Tea, broth, water—”
“What about alcohol?” I ask.
“That’s what many Americans are wondering,” she says, “judging by the millions of Google searches. The most popular clear liquid for colon cleansing is vodka. Many people combine it with Gatorade as a mixer.”
This may seem a rather dull conversation. . . .
But the morning of, as a friendly nurse tucks me in under my blanket, she asks, “How was your prep? Everyone has a story!” She wants to know how many fluid ounces I drank. At what hour my pee turned what color. She is very, very fascinated.
Indeed, I am so flattered by the attention, I almost don’t notice when they start turning me to my side. “Hey wait a minute!” I exclaim. And then I am out. At least for a bit. Either I hallucinated this or I actually woke up in the middle, and found I was experiencing an annoying, pulling sensation à la Charlie’s squeegee—“EE ee EE ee EE!”
“Whoa!” I said. At which point it seemed like a small nun in a big winged hat picked up a frying pan and clonked me over the head with it.
The lesson being, perhaps? When you’re getting anesthesia, don’t gloss over your weight, as I always do. Admit you weigh three hundred pounds.
Going Medieval Atkins
THE GREEN GODDESS COOKBOOK. The Mediterranean Diet, the olive oil, the cheeses, the vegetables . . . which, quite frankly, we’ve started frying.
For months, I had been thinking, Man—all these vegetables are filling— My stomach’s bloated— All that fiber— But tomorrow nature’s broom will come to the rescue!
But it never does.
“Carbs,” my gay friend Rick tells me. He’s a vain sixtysomething who still has his boy body. “That’s why I’ve switched from Bloody Marys to Bullshots—where instead of tomato juice you use beef boullion. Because those are the secret carbs—vegetables. You were telling me about your Brussels sprouts recipe? That’s a carb per sprout! Eat twenty and you’re done for the day!”
“Oh come on!” I say. “I refuse to fight with a g
rown man over how fattening Brussels sprouts are.” I think it’s the occasional triangle of reduced fat Laughing Cow cheese—an extra thirty calories—I add.
Determined to be good, I’m off to the farmer’s market. But I’m so hangry—aka, hungry and angry—and light-headed from the lack of cheese, I forget I’m food shopping and find myself thinking more like a geologist at a gem fair.
“Look at that rare and incredibly colorful item!” I say to myself, bedazzled by the giant cauliflowers, in exotic colors like purple and yellow and lime green. I drag a neon orange one home. Bigger than a basketball, it won’t go in the fridge. And so, with barely the strength to wield a knife, I feebly attack the cauliflower, hacking away at it. But when you stab a cauliflower it explodes into tiny florets that shoot horizontally outward into every nook and cranny of your kitchen.
I need a Trader Joe’s salad. But when I start really looking at them, enriched with bulgur wheat and cranberries and quinoa? Oh my God! It’s like sixty-four carbs and forty-five grams of fat, due to the miso soy peanut dressing! Not kidding. You can just consume a tureen of macaroni and cheese and be better off.
At which moment, in the devil’s sibilant whisper, a single dark word floats: “Atkins.”
I’ve never dared Atkins before. It is a measure of how frightened I’ve become of fat that even the notion of consuming a single egg yolk triggers heart palpitations. Dare I do it? Atkins is so politically incorrect, it feels like you’re making a pact with the devil. It feels like you’re clubbing baby seals with a giant Renaissance Faire turkey leg. Which is in fact allowed, sans barbecue sauce.
Understand that in Phase One of Atkins, ominously called “Induction,” you cut out fruit! Why? Because it’s packed with sugar. After you’ve lost that first 150 pounds, you may try half an apple per day. Maybe. Unless it causes the weight to fly back on. Vegetables are also restricted. Broccoli and even lettuce are measured out a half cup at a time. Carrots are a flat-out no.
The Madwoman and the Roomba Page 18
