I Regret Nothing: A Memoir

by Jen Lancaster

  “When I’m not assigned to the front gate to check in trucks, I spend the night covering ten interior acres, chugging from vending machine to vending machine,” he said, unpacking his work bag. I was sitting on the bamboo Double Papasan couch in the living area of our dismal studio apartment. Once I graduated, this piece was the first item I junked, as it would not allow the user to sit up straight, instead turning me into what I used to call a Cup o’ Jen.

  “Hold on a damn minute,” I interrupted, attempting to right myself in the chair, which caused it to go only more bowl-shaped. The cats who’d been sitting with me flew off in all directions, as though vacating a sinking ship. “There are three-wheeled bikes for adults? This is really a thing? Like with a big basket?”

  “Yes, and they’re as fucked-up as a soup-sandwich,” he replied. He took off his polyester shirt and unclipped his awful fake tie, gingerly placing both items on a hanger. “I hope to God no one ever breaks into the plant because if they spot me on one, wearing this outfit with my pretend badge—”

  I failed to understand his issue. “Whoa, hold it there—so you could just be tooling around all no-handed, holding a Mountain Dew in one paw and a bag of Fritos in the other, cruising up and down the empty production lines as fast as you want without any fear of tipping over? How fun is that?!”

  My whole life I’ve harbored a resentment toward those who could ride no-handed. To this day, I can’t even sit on an exercise bike without clinging to the handlebars with a serious G.I.-Joe- kung-fu grip. Every time I see someone on the road, all smug and well-balanced, using their cell phone and gesturing while they talk and ride, I secretly want to bash them with my car door. It’s not fair that they can be so cavalier when some of us are so scared of getting back on a bike that we’re ignoring what is likely the easiest check on our bucket lists.

  “Yeah, but less the fun. I don’t think you’re picturing how ludicrous they are—imagine a big yellow behemoth with a gigantic metal basket and white wheels and huge fenders and—”

  I shifted in my tub-couch. “How many cats could you fit in the basket, would you say? Like, on average?” I immediately envisioned myself wheeling around campus, the sun at my face, the wind at my back, and my two black cats sitting up front, enjoying the breeze. Fletch’s dad was right—the whole notion seemed so very . . . European, which was a tremendous selling point in my opinion. In fact, just that day we’d been discussing la bicicletta in my college Italian 101 class and I felt there could be a synergy here.

  The three-wheeled bike was my destiny; I was sure of it.

  I immediately became enamored with the idea of using a cool bike to run the errands I’d normally do in my stupid un-air-conditioned Toyota Tercel. Hell, if I was going to ride around in a vehicle without a radio, at least I could get some exercise while doing it. This notion came on the heels of the brief period in which I believed I could accomplish the same on roller blades, like a real urban achiever. One ineffectual set of toe-brakes plus one hill plus many tubes of bacitracin and a newfound fear of motion later, I let go of that dream. But a basket and three wheels? I’d never lose all the damn skin on my knees again!

  At the time, I was still very careful to incorporate cardio into my daily life, so I was one hundred percent on board with the idea. Fun and fitness? Sign me up!

  As I played out the scenario, I could see how the idea of transporting my cats could be an issue, but I’d been training Mr. Bones to walk on a leash and he rose to the occasion. I believed he’d be game for the bike, as would Mr. Tucker. Clearly these were more formal times in pet ownership, hence the proper names.

  (Sidebar: I’d just seen Reservoir Dogs, so I thought I was cool by association.)

  (Additional sidebar: I was mistaken.)

  I envisioned us all together, zipping to the market for baguettes and wine, with me in my ballet flats and Audrey Hepburn pedal pushers and a striped boatneck shirt. I’m not sure why those items were on my fantasy shopping list, considering I was far more likely to purchase the thick, soft Wonder Bread-y goodness of Texas Toast and I drank Miller Lite almost exclusively. (I bet Mr. Tatum wouldn’t even dream about touching white bread.) Plus, I’d probably encounter some difficulty finding tiny berets for the cats to complete the look, but I was up for the challenge.

  Fletch narrowed his eyes at me as he pulled off his work shoes. “That’s a . . . really specific question. Are you getting ideas? Don’t get ideas.”

  “What? I’m just asking you about your day,” I mildly replied. If I wanted to visualize Messrs. Tucker and Bones hanging out in a basket up front, well, that was none of his concern. “Also, is there a place to attach a tall safety flag on the back? Like one of those fluorescent orange ones? I ask for no particular reason.”

  He crossed the room to stand over me in my massive cushioned teacup. “This is a deal breaker, you understand. I love you, but I can’t be with you if you buy a three-wheeled bike.”

  “I’m not going to buy one!” I replied truthfully. Not because I didn’t want one, mind you. Largely it’s because I needed to save my money to purchase a couch that couldn’t double as a martini glass.

  Fletch finally got a job in the city and moved north. I followed him later that spring when I graduated. With a new life in (the crappy suburbs of) Chicago, I had other priorities, such as carrying a better couch upstairs from where we’d found it by the Dumpster, so I put three-wheeled bikes out of my head. However, I never quite forgot about their exotic allure, especially now as I view this ideal specimen growing smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror.

  Fletch observes me watching the old lady pedal away. “No. Not happening. Not now, not ever, not while I’m alive,” he says definitively as we pull out of Fort Sheridan and head for home. He takes a long pull of his iced coffee as though to punctuate his point. “A three-wheeled bike will be your reward for when I pass.”

  Now, I would never have the kind of midlife crisis that would in any way disrespect my husband. I’d die before violating our most sacred marriage vows, no matter how many times Channing Tatum texted me, even if he promised to try my spaghetti.

  But the bike thing?

  Well, that’s just silly.

  And now I have to have one.

  6.

  DIVORCE IMMINENT

  A week later, Fletch and I are driving home from Milwaukee. I’ve been invited to join hosts Molly and Tiffany for the opening segment of Morning Blend, a local television talk show. I’ve been up there a few times promoting various books and previously clicked with the hosts and their producer. As I live only an hour south, it’s often easier for me to get to Milwaukee than it is to drive down to Chicago, so I’m psyched when they allow me to fill in.

  As a natural-born ham, I relish being on live television, although the old adage about the camera adding ten pounds is a lie. Pretty sure it’s more like fifty. I’ve done TV interviews all over the country and each time I watch a recording, I don’t appreciate my own snappy repartee and pithy answers. Instead, I end up Zapruder-ing the whole appearance, wondering what I could have worn that would be more flattering and less likely to emphasize stomach rolls, angrily composing letters in my head to the manufacturers of my clearly faulty Spanx.

  Also, didn’t I used to have a neck?

  And when did my head become so potato-shaped?

  A few years ago, I cohosted an entire afternoon talk show in Oregon, even sitting in on the editorial portion beforehand. I was party to the opening rap and the cooking segment, and I helped interview comedian Dov Davidoff (who I secretly believe found me enchanting). Everything was going spectacularly well . . . until the final segment. The hosts were talking about some new kind of frozen yogurt and they suggested I be the one who added the toppings and I couldn’t help but quip, “Oh, yeah, have the fat girl work the dessert.”

  The crew laughed, which is always my goal, but the other hosts stayed frozen for
the five longest seconds of my life, their eyes huge and their mouths forming perfectly shaped Os. Apparently they didn’t realize that I knew I was overweight and the whole thing became too awkward for words.

  To be clear, I’m not faulting the hosts for having a genuinely uncomfortable reaction. I can’t place the blame anywhere but on myself, even though I figured I was simply verbalizing what they were thinking.

  I don’t know why I insist on pulling stunts like this, but I wish I could stop myself.

  Seems like the more exposure I receive, the more open I’ve made myself to criticism. I hate how there’s no barrier to strangers informing me about how terrible I am on my own pages. With the mere click of a mouse, I can be put in my place but good via Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Pinterest, or Google+, just to name a few. (But not MySpace, which has been a ghost town since 2008. I hope Tom’s okay.)

  The thing is, I get it. I do. I understand why people are vicious on The Internets. We live in a time when more than ninety-five million Americans are currently unemployed. Sure, these numbers include kids in school, the retired, and those who’ve simply opted out of the workforce, but a whole bunch of them are fine people who would absolutely love a job, but they’ve hit a run of bad luck.

  They’re scared.

  They’re angry.

  They’re bitter.

  And because of social media, they’re constantly bombarded by the images/messages of those who they perceive are doing better than they are, even though studies show that what people post on Facebook isn’t an accurate depiction of their lives. But in a pictures-or-it-didn’t-happen world, the images ring true.

  Trust me, I understand that viewing someone else’s plummier reality—even if it’s not accurate—is a recipe for unhappiness.

  So, my assumption is that when someone’s having a bad day and they see me, the original poster child for bad choices, no longer scared, angry, and decidedly less bitter, it’s really freaking annoying. Some people definitely preferred it when my life was miserable. When your own life is grim, it’s comforting to hear stories about someone else having her car repossessed. A drowning man doesn’t want to see shots of his old boss’s swimming pool. A starving woman would rather not witness her ex–college BFF live-blogging her hundred-dollar dinner. And thanks to social media, there are few consequences for the venting of spleens. I don’t like it, but I get it.

  But how come no one says anything to my face? I do dozens of events per year and I’ve met thousands of readers, and every single person I’ve ever encountered has been lovely. Why is that, I wonder? Am I more charming in person, or is it that face-to-face blunt-force-trauma honesty requires a modicum of courage?

  You don’t have to be a writer, though, to know that making fun of yourself is a good way to deflect being made fun of. Like many people, I am hypercritical about myself so that I beat the haters to the punch. When I acknowledge my foibles first, no one else can use them against me. I’ve taken away everyone else’s power to make me feel less about myself by doing it first.

  The thing is?

  Sometimes people aren’t actually trying to make me feel less about myself so much as they are following a teleprompter to inform Greater Portland about a new place to buy fro-yo.

  Also? I’ve not yet been invited back to that show. Am sure that’s not an oversight.

  Clearly there’s a lot to think about here when I get to the weight loss portion of my bucket list. I realize I can’t change what people feel about me, but until I’m good and invisible, there has to be a way to alter how I process my reactions for my own sanity.

  For now, I’ll concentrate on checking off the tangible. Maybe if I have some bucket list success, the other issues will somehow feel less pressing.

  Fortunately, today’s show passed without incident and I’m happy and confident, particularly since Fletch is with me. He decided to join me on the drive because I’ve not shut up about this spectacular honey latte I had at a local coffee shop up there weeks earlier.

  (Sidebar: The Stone Creek Roasters Boston Latte is worth the drive.)

  As we meander home along the lakefront, I can’t help but notice how many people are out riding their bicycles.

  “What’s up with the billions of bikes? It’s like Holland or something up here,” I remark. “You notice they’re not dressed like all the Lance-Armstrong-try-hards around us? It’s strange.” We live very close to a bike trail and every day I see dozens of spandex-clad, logo-covered, Tour de France wannabes whizzing past my house on four-thousand-dollar road bikes at thirty miles an hour, which makes for an unexpected thrill when trying to pull out of our semiblind driveway. However, these people up here in Milwaukee? Folks are out riding around in their regular street clothes, midday.

  “It’s weird, right?” he replies. “How come they’re not in sweats or Under Armour? We just passed a guy in a sports coat and two girls in dresses.”

  “Maybe everyone has DUIs?” I muse. “We are in a town built by breweries.”

  As we proceed, I lose track of how many Milwaukeeans I see on bikes because there are too many to count. They’re all ages and ethnicities and sizes, too. The only common denominator is a demonstrable lack of proper cycling gear and a distaste for helmets. Are folks’ heads harder up here? Is this some form of Wisconsin Tough I’ve not previously encountered? We keep passing bikers smoking while they ride, too. What’s up with that? Do they keep Miller Genuine Draft in their water bottles, as well? I guess this really is a party city.

  A number of overweight people are tooling past us just as breezily as their thin counterparts and that makes my heart smile. Good for you! I cheer in my head. You ride that bike like a boss! The cyclists appear cool and carefree, and not a massive bundle of nerves like I’d be, all worried and self-conscious that my weight might throw off my center of gravity.

  Each of the bigger bikers seems as serene as Buddha as we pass, which makes me seriously ponder my own history with bikes. I loved my bike and I feel like our relationship ended far too soon and that’s why learning to ride again is on my list. When I used to go to the gym, I’d often hit the stationary machines, but they didn’t offer the same thrill as pedaling along a lake path, the warm summer breeze to my back. The road to nowhere on the treadmill never bothered me, nor did the elliptical, but there was always something intrinsically wrong with staying in the same place on a device designed for locomotion.

  We continue to work our way toward home and at one point, the entire car is surrounded by bikers. When did Milwaukee become China? What’s the deal? I start Googling to see if I can get to the bottom of Milwaukee’s clearly rich and diverse bike culture and discover that it’s ranked in the top twenty-five of Best Biking Cities. Hey, good on you, Milwaukee!

  The bikers’ enthusiasm is contagious and I begin to get excited, yet I wonder if riding a bicycle is like . . . well, riding a bicycle? Is it truly impossible to have forgotten how?

  While I’m digging around for more info on what a newbie might ride, I run across a photo of a three-wheeled bike for adults.

  Oh. My. God.

  Each of its wheels is a triumph of thick tread and grippy black rubber, with white walls for that extra touch of class. I bet this bike is steady as a mountain goat in a meadow pass. Imagine the stability of a whole extra wheel! Like, no one would build a two-legged table, right? But a three-legger? Yes, please!

  I bet a person could be as pudgy as she wanted and she couldn’t fall off of a bike like this even if she tried. She’d never be in danger of taking a tumble in front of some weekend warrior in padded Rapha gear. I bet if she rode it for a while, she might be less pudgy, too.

  I continue to tab. Aha, what’s this? The three-wheeled bike has just one speed, so there’d be none of that confusing shifting that can be so vexing if you’re twelve and don’t read instructions. As I never could quite figure out what gear to use when going up
and down hills, it seems like one gear would take away a lot of the guesswork. Like opting for an automatic instead of a stick shift. Sure, you give up some performance on the road, but it’s way easier to eat a Filet-O-Fish in traffic; ergo, it’s a fine trade-off.

  The color is to die for, too—it’s a cherry-cola-red, so it’s not too bright as to be showy. The bits of iridescence in the paint give it just the right amount of shimmer, and the wire basket on the back? Sweet baby Jesus, this could hold every cat I own or possibly a couple of pugs whom I would name Sid and Nancy and dress in tiny leather motorcycle jackets with matching wind goggles!

  I’m pretty sure I already love the me who rides a three-wheeled bike.

  I tab through the buyers’ comments and see that this particular three-wheeled bike has been well reviewed for use by the elderly, the infirm, and the developmentally disabled.

  I can imagine a no more ringing endorsement than that.

  And if I click now, this spectacular bit of engineering could be delivered to my door by Friday!

  Without another moment’s hesitation, I click to process my order and when I receive confirmation, I can’t help but clap and squeal with glee.

  This is real!

  This is happening!

  This is the best idea I’ve ever had!

  The joy I feel over this purchase is almost incalculable. Why did I ever wait so long to bring this degree of magic into my life? How could I have let a measly two hundred and twenty-four dollars stand between me and a decades-long dream? I congratulate myself again and again because this is going to change everything!

  Fletch glances over at me and smiles. “What’s going on?”

  Oh, shit.

  I broke his cardinal rule, the one thing he felt so strongly about that he wanted to work that promise into our marriage vows, except the minister in the casino was working off a set script and we couldn’t exactly freestyle.