Flight 370 must have been at the top of my mind during the surgery because the moment I came to, I asked the doctor if perhaps they’d located the plane up there. No one thought that was funny, save for me, who was braying like a jackass. Then the doctor explained how while I was under, she’d also removed the weird little cyst on my West Virginia that had formed after the World’s Most Unfortunate Tick Bite two summers ago. She said I’d notice a few stitches and I’d likely have a scar. I replied, “Oh, no! That’s going to ruin my porn career.” Again, no one laughed.
So maybe I didn’t handle the anesthesia that well.
(But I totally could have painted that trim.)
Joanna runs a hand through her never-once-colored hair. The parts that used to be pale blond have a few streaks of gray threaded in. With her fair coloring, she looks great au naturel. She’s always been Team Minimal Processing. She didn’t even own a hair dryer when we first met—unheard of in the Aqua Nettiest decade in history. I, on the other hand, can’t even remember what my real hair color looks like. “That’s why I plan to age gracefully. A face-lift can’t go wrong if you don’t have one. Your roots will never be a problem if you don’t first bleach them.”
In college, Joanna would occasionally let me turn her into a human Barbie styling head, but I haven’t been allowed to lay a hand on her since the Great Crimping Calamity of 1990. “If you change your mind, I can help. You know the picture of us Anna took before the concert? I was playing with photo-editing software and I took twenty years off of both of us. I can PicMonkey you completely blond again, although I don’t know how to give me back my standing thigh gap. Do you remember if I had a standing thigh gap?”
Joanna scrunches up her forehead in a way that’s patently impossible for me. “A what?”
I swear standing thigh gaps are a thing, even though no one else in my orbit seems to have heard about them.
“Never mind. Did Anna enjoy the show?”
During the summer of 2011, Joanna and I took her daughter to see the Glee tour, and every single tween in the twenty-thousand-seat arena lost her shit when “Jessie’s Girl” was performed. I was pleasantly surprised to realize this song meant something to an entirely new generation. I’d turned to Joanna and said, “How mad is Rick Springfield right about now?” The whole thing became a running joke, so when I saw that Rick Springfield was coming to an auditorium near me, I bought us tickets.
(Sidebar: Ticket prices for his shows have dramatically increased since I last saw him in South Bend, circa 1982. As have the size of the underwear I’d have chucked at the stage. I guess that’s how inflation works.)
“She did! She kept marveling at all the crazy women, though. They were a trip.”
We attended the concert out of a sense of nostalgia, but that wasn’t the case with everyone else sitting around us. Because I bought tickets the day they went online, our seats were smack in the middle of the Serious Fan section. All around us, ladies were chattering about their most recent Rick Springfield fan cruise, outdoing one another with the depth and breadth of their Springfield-related trivia knowledge, and wearing homemade shirts emblazoned with slogans that read THIS IS MY SEVENTEENTH SHOW!
Which . . . really?
I couldn’t mock anyone for being there because I was there.
But, really?
Seventeen shows?
I mean, (a) I didn’t realize he’d been so prolific in the thirty-two years since I’d seen him last and, (b) really?
Hell, I can’t imagine doing anything seventeen times, let alone seeing Rick Springfield that often. Sure, I worshipped him when I was younger and his music made my prepubescent heart ache. Who could be so coldhearted to that beautifully soulful man who’s done everything for her, while she’s done nothin’ for him? But if someone were to offer me the chance to not only solve the mess in the Middle East, but also wear Cameron Diaz’s body to my thirtieth high school reunion and the only stipulation was to see a show seventeen times, I’d be all, “No, thanks. School night.”
“Weren’t you surprised at how charming he was?” I ask. I was vaguely concerned that everyone around us would be up and dancing because that seemed exhausting. I didn’t want to rock; I wanted to sit. But the format of his performance was a nice surprise, almost more of a spoken word show. He spent most of the night on a stool, surrounded by various guitars, explaining the backstory for each of his songs before singing them.
Well, there’s nothing I love more than a compelling narrative. A couple of years ago when his memoir came out, I was all smug and “good for you, sweetie,” but at the concert I realized that someone who’s written hundreds of songs is as much a writer as he is a singer. He was both charismatic and witty—always a winning combination.
At the end of the night, he held up an early copy of Magnificent Vibrations, his first novel, about a man who finds a book containing God’s cell phone number. I made a mental note to preorder the book because if it was half as engaging as he’d been onstage, I was sure to love it.
I’d gone into the night all judgmental about women stuck thirty years ago, but what’s more likely is these true fans had been evolving right along with him.
“We’ll have to remember to buy his book,” she agrees. “So, roomie, what else is up?”
“You’re never going to believe this—I’m having an art show! Because I’m an artist. Remind me to shop for a beret.” I grab a spider roll, dipping it in a mixture of soy sauce and wasabi. I’m not great with chopsticks, so I always end up shoving the whole piece in my mouth, instead of trying to take down the roll in bites. I figure I’d rather have a mouthful for a second than have dribbled sauce stains on myself all day.
Joanna’s whole face lights up. “You’re kidding! You found a place to sell your furniture?”
I nod, needing a second to chew before I can answer. “Yes! Laurie’s sister Wendy’s an artist and she’s had a couple of shows at a gallery in Lake Forest. We were all at dinner and I showed her some shots of my newest pieces. Did you check out the Union Jack dresser I made for my office?”
“Yes, very cool.”
“Wendy really liked my stuff, so she told the gallery owners about me. I went in to meet with them and the first thing out of my mouth was that I’m not an artist. I’m just a person who puts paint on furniture. But then I told them about how I salvage and refurbish pieces, and they explained that this dovetails completely into their mission statement. The place is called Re-Invent and it’s all about finding new uses for old things. So I’m having an art opening in May. Because I’m an artist.”
Joanna balls her fists in victory. “Congratulations! I’m excited to see what else you’ve been doing! I loved the pieces we saw in the basement at your Christmas party. What’s the gallery like? Are the owners nice?”
My words come out in a rush, because I’m so psyched about the show. “Kind of amazing. Aside from the actual gallery, there’s a big retail operation with fun and funky pieces from more than a hundred local artists. One guy does sculptures out of old metal and there’s a dinosaur made from bicycle chains. Fletch wants it, but where do we put a bicycle-chain dinosaur?”
“The yard?”
“Wouldn’t it rust?”
“Good point.”
While I talk, Joanna munches a smoked salmon roll. “Get this, the owners are a couple of women in their twenties. They both love art and studied it in college, so they decided to make a go at owning a gallery. They’ve each worked, like, three jobs apiece to get the place up and running, but now it’s a viable business. Can you imagine being in your early twenties, owning a business, and meeting payroll? Wait, I’m sure you actually could, but I was still going to fraternity parties at that age. How could I have managed a business when I couldn’t even manage to find my bra? Or could you imagine us partnering in a business back then?”
Joanna peels open a piece of edamame and plucks
out the tender green peas. “Ha! I guarantee if we had, we wouldn’t be having lunch together right now. Because I’d be dead and you’d be in jail.”
I point out, “Unless the judge were sympathetic to people who snap when someone chews that much ice and keeps dropping the damn answering machine.” We eventually had to tie our answering machine to the coffee table hostage-style after she knocked it onto the floor for the millionth time.
“If you’d gone to prison, then you could have written Orange Is the New Black.”
I spoon a glob of wasabi into my dish of soy sauce and mix the ingredients together. I like my sushi spicy enough to invoke tears. “Right? Every time someone buys Bitter now, I wonder if they’re reading it, all, ‘When does she become a lesbian and go to jail?’”
We both sample pieces of today’s special roll—a concoction made of white tuna, cream cheese, and raspberry sauce. What initially sounded odd is actually fairly spectacular. With our mouths full, we both point at the plate. I nod and Joanna gives a thumbs-up.
“So is the gallery show part of your bucket list?”
I take a sip of my tea to stop the wasabi-based fire that’s raging in my mouth and sinuses. “I wanted to start a business, so this totally counts.” I amend my statement. “If people buy anything, that is. Otherwise, I’m still just a hobbyist. Oh, speaking of my list, I’ve got to head back home by one today. I have my first session with the nutritionist because developing healthier habits is on the list, too.”
“Wait a minute; how are you seeing a nutritionist when you have a registered dietician right here in front of you? Plus, I’m free.”
I look her directly in her eyes. “Do you really want to be the person who tries to come between me and my macaroni and cheese?”
She blanches. “I do not.”
“I think over the last twenty-nine years of friendship, we’ve figured out our boundaries.” Joanna, Julia, and I are going to the beach in September, after their kids go back to school. We could save two hundred dollars apiece if we bunked together, but we figure our friendship is worth more than that, so we’ll each have our own rooms again.
Joanna snatches a raspberry off the plate of the day’s special. “If you’re seeing someone for dietetic counseling, then should we skip the mochi today?”
I put down my chopsticks. “Absolutely not. We’re Team Butter and this may be the last time I’m allowed to have dessert.”
• • •
My session with the nutritionist isn’t at all what I expected. I thought Michelle would provide a rigid eating plan, cutting out all processed flour and dairy and refined sugar, and I’d diligently follow it until I couldn’t take it anymore, backflipping into a vat of buttercream frosting.
Instead, she urges me to eat whatever I want, with the stipulation that I follow three simple rules.
First, I need to mindfully eat. Whatever I choose—and it can be literally anything my heart and palate desires—I need to pay attention to what I’m eating. I have to savor each bite. If I’m having, say, Port Salut cheese on a toasted crostini, I must be conscious of the interplay between the creaminess of the cheese and the tang of the sea salt and rosemary seasoning on the bread. I should note how the bite feels in my mouth. I should enjoy and appreciate every bite of every meal.
The second rule is to note my appetite cues, and quit once I’m satisfied. We discuss a hunger chart, where One is absolutely ravenous and Ten is beyond stuffed, ready to pass out in a food coma. As I learn about these cues, I can think of so many times I’ve proceeded past the point of satisfaction to uncomfortably full.
I learn that by taking a step back and really noticing my bad habits, it’s easier to make changes. I realize that I often consume too much at dinner because Fletch is the world’s slowest eater. (Seriously. He could win a competition.) He literally takes forty-five minutes to finish what’s on his plate. Most nights, I’d find myself taking extra just to keep him company while he methodically chewed every bite nine million times. But now that I’m paying attention, I’m better prepared to stop once I’ve reached Seven or Eight on the scale. When I get to that point, I immediately put my plate in the dishwasher and I fix a decaf cappuccino. That way, I still have the enjoyment of sitting at the dinner table without feeling too stuffed to actually head down to the basement and work on furniture for my upcoming show.
Michelle’s third rule is to completely eliminate any food-based guilt. She says the guilt is useless and just makes us miserable. The more we look at food as fuel and the more we take emotions out of eating, the more likely we are to moderate ourselves. I guarantee this is true and all I have to do is look at the times I tried the Atkins Diet. I remember once watching a kid eat a waffle and it was all I could do not to rip it out of his toddler fingers and run away with it. Every time I sit down to eat, I’m to tell myself, “I can have whatever I want.”
Michelle bills herself as The Fat Nutritionist, as her mission isn’t about making her clients skinny. Rather, her goal is to help people normalize their relationships with food.
She makes a lot of sense.
(Sidebar: She’s Canadian and she promises me that the folks on Love It or List It aren’t representative of her fellow countrymen. She also mentioned that maybe I’d be more mindful about my eating if I weren’t shouting at the ridiculous home owners on television while having dinner.)
A few weeks into working with Michelle, I have to take an overnight trip down to Purdue because I’m speaking to a couple of classes. Along the way, I stop at McDonald’s for a double Filet-O-Fish meal. For the first time, I notice that the drive-through has calorie counts posted and I’m shocked at how calorically dense the sandwich is. (I blame the tartar sauce.) But instead of feeling remorseful and overindulgent while I have my lunch, I mindfully eat the sandwich from Schererville all the way to Morocco. I finish when I feel satisfied and, because I’ve eaten the sandwich so methodically, for the first time in recorded history, I don’t finish my fries. And because I’m satisfied, I don’t stop later for a Dairy Queen butterscotch-dipped cone.
Granted, I won’t ever be thin eating this way, but I suspect I could eventually be less fat.
It’s a start.
• • •
I’m shocked at how the student body’s changed since I graduated. When did kids become so somber and serious? I have a number of events throughout the day, from coffees to lunch to receptions, and I’m struck by everyone’s intensity. My contacts in the Liberal Arts department confirm my suspicions that the good-time-party-uselessness of the eighties and early nineties has morphed into an ultracompetitive pressure cooker and that no one’s allowing themselves any downtime. They’re all driving themselves too hard.
(Sidebar: I also suspect that there’s no way I’d get into Purdue if I were to apply now, but I don’t mention this.)
I had a speech prepared, but I decided to freestyle instead because I’d written it based on wrong assumptions. My message to the students is that they’re doing a great job at academics, but that they also need to cut themselves a break.
I explained how the most important thing I learned in college was to navigate the interpersonal aspect. I instructed them to, at least once a day, step away from a screen and sit down across from a friend to engage in conversation. Have fun. I landed my first professional job not because I was an academic trailblazer (clearly), but because I knew a ton of people from hanging out in the bars and one of these friends introduced me to her mom, who helped me get an interview. I took it from there, but if it hadn’t been for how social I was, I’d have never had the chance. I explained to these students that they don’t want to hit their forties and realize they’ve never cut loose or been irreverent.
In a world where every moment of these kids’ lives has been orchestrated and micromanaged from the minute they could be taken from soccer practice to violin lessons to dance class to tutoring, they looked at
me like I’d just revealed the Holy Grail. I came home feeling like I’d accomplished something important. I’m not sure what, exactly, but I imagine it was bucket list–worthy.
Although maybe the advice I gave them wasn’t different from what Michelle’s been telling me about finally, mindfully, giving myself a damn break.
• • •
I’ve lost five pounds in the six weeks that I’ve been working with Michelle. This is significant because I haven’t yet actively tried to lose weight, as I plan to focus more on fitness over the summer. I’ve found that the more I allow myself to have what I want, the less I’m liable to take.
This spring has been hectic, as I’ve been hustling to complete my furniture collection. A week before my show, the paperback version of Tao of Martha comes out and I have to go to New York to attend some events.
I’ve just boarded the plane home. I’m all strapped into my seat and trying to figure out what movie I’d like to watch on my iPad (maybe Wolf of Wall Street since I’m in a New York state of mind) when I see a familiar face in the aisle.
Holy crap.
Rick Springfield’s on this flight.
He’s seated one row back and one seat over from me and I crack up every time a woman over the age of thirty-five boards the plane, spots Rick, and tries desperately not to lose her shit. He’s pretty nonchalant about the whole thing, as he’s been causing this reaction for more than thirty years.
That’s when I realize—this is it!
I Regret Nothing: A Memoir Page 16
