I Regret Nothing: A Memoir

by Jen Lancaster

  “Why do you never ask me about these things before the fact?” Gina queries.

  “Because it’s impossible for me to learn any way but the hard way,” I reply.

  “How much weight have you lost so far?” Tracey asks. “Your face is definitely thinner. I can tell.”

  I sit up very straight in my chair. “As of this morning, thirty pounds!”

  I receive a round of high-fives from everyone at the table.

  “Glad you’re here to celebrate with us,” Stacey says.

  “Right now, the difference is barely noticeable, but my pants are definitely looser and my arms aren’t going numb in my sleep anymore. I totally see more definition in my calves and around my chin, too. Thing is, I feel like I’m different, not just because of diet and exercise, but from everything. It’s like speaking Italian actually did make my ass smaller. The other times I’ve tried to lose weight, I was never in the right mental mind-set.”

  While I was on my girls’ trip, I looked at a bunch of shots from Savannah last year and I noticed how much fatter I was back then. But for the first time, this observation came without feelings of guilt or inadequacy.

  Really, looking at my shape was more of an observation, kind of like, “Huh, I had a better tan back then,” or, “Wow, I really needed to have my roots done.” The key has been taking responsibility for my own weight loss. Instead of relying on a trainer or a diet plan, I’ve been in charge of my own destiny; ergo, the success is all mine.

  “Sometimes it’s just time,” Stacey says with a shrug. She’s lost quite a bit of weight herself in the past year, not by making drastic changes, but by adding healthy habits here and there.

  I think the older we get, the more we learn to moderate our moderation. Thus far, it’s working for all of us.

  We place our orders and instead of my usual breakfast burrito with extra sour cream, avocado, and floppy bacon, I choose the watermelon gazpacho and kale and beet bruschetta, not because I have to, but because the dishes sound appealing. Juicing really made me appreciate the fresh taste of these ingredients when not blended into a vat of tepid, unseasoned stew.

  “You haven’t been down here all summer. We’ve missed you,” Tracey says. Between travel, the furniture show, due dates, and Hambone, I’ve not had a minute to spare. “How’s Hammy doing?”

  At the beginning of the summer, Ham got into a huge fight with Loki. She didn’t start it, but she certainly finished it. After that, she became really aggressive and started to attack Libby and Loki, to the point we were worried the dogs would become seriously injured. (By the way, I could check off the break up a fight between two pit bulls item on my bucket list now, except that was never anything I’d wanted to do in the first place.)

  As soon as we had the second dustup, I realized the fighting wasn’t just an anomaly and I began to research specific steps I’d need to follow to help my baby. I immediately began to investigate what had gone wrong and one of the first resources I turned to was Cesar Millan.

  I perused his Web page, with poor little Ham clinging to my legs under my desk while the other dogs were downstairs with Fletch, and I ran across a few products he sells on his site. Where there should have been product reviews, dozens of people were instead telling their stories about the problems with their dogs, each desperate for Cesar to respond and tell them what to do, begging him, pleading with him, saying he was their only hope.

  This broke my heart.

  Instead of figuring out how to implement solutions to save their dogs—with much of the needed instruction posted elsewhere on this very site—these owners instead opted to do nothing but write their stories. I hate to imagine how many of these dogs will be put down when the nothing their owners tried doesn’t pan out.

  If anything, this year’s taught me that the key to living without regret is to take immediate action.

  You see, I’d already lost one pit bull before her time and I’d be damned if I was about to lose another.

  Thing is, I knew Hammy wasn’t mean or evil and I’d trust her in a room full of babies. After each of the fights this summer, she’d been so frightened, trembling for hours, even though she was the instigator. I quickly discovered that hers wasn’t the behavior of an aggressive dog; it’s what happens when a dog is scared.

  Sweet Hammy has always been anxious and I now realized that we’d been dealing with her angst all wrong, like when we’d come home and she’d lose her mind. We were taught to ignore her and to discipline her into submission either through yelling or shaking a can of pennies at her, but that’s the opposite of what she needed. An anxious dog requires reassurance, so now we greet her and find a way to redirect her nervous energy. We have her cycle through her retinue of tricks until she’s calm, and for this, she’s richly rewarded.

  Over the course of the summer, we’ve seen our vet and a board-certified behaviorist to help us take the steps needed to give Ham a long, happy life. One of my tasks is to walk her every day for an hour to burn off her nervous energy. The walks are of huge benefit to both of us.

  Now she’s calm enough to be left in a room alone for the first time in her life, and I can be left alone in a room with a cheesecake for the first time in my life. And she and I have an exceptionally tight bond now because I feel like we’re both tearing ourselves down to the studs and starting over. She’ll never be Maisy, but I’ve discovered that her being Hammy is pretty darned good, too.

  “Hammy’s working so hard,” I say. “Yesterday we were on our walk and we passed a couple with two badly behaved beagles. They were yipping and pulling and lunging and basically pushing all of Hammy’s buttons. So I put her in a sit and let the beagle owners walk past and that little champion didn’t even blink an eye. I could hear the owners asking their dogs why they couldn’t behave like the nice red dog over there. Sure, mainstreaming her back into the pack is going to be a process, but I believe we’re all up for it.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Gina says. “Hammy’s such a little peanut.”

  “Now, what are you having done today? You’re down here for some reason, but I forget what,” Stacey says.

  “My first laser tattoo removal session! I thought that getting rid of this thing”—I point at the letters on my ankle—“would be a great way to finish up my year of eliminating regrets. Because you know who doesn’t have tattoos? Every middle-aged person in the entire town of Lake Forest.”

  “Won’t that be ridiculously expensive?” Tracey asks.

  “Yes, if I went to a plastic surgeon. But I found a place called Vamoose, which is catty-corner from where I lived in Bucktown and only costs seventy-nine bucks per session! They can’t say how many sessions I’ll need until after we begin, but at the most, I’m looking at three to five times, which is a massive savings.”

  “Then that’s at least three to five more guaranteed lunches here at Lula!” Stacey cheers.

  Even though we four haven’t gotten together for a meal in months, it’s as though we were all here yesterday.

  (Sidebar: We’re the only non-hipster, non-fixie-riding, non-ironic-facial-haired patrons in the joint, as Stacey’s neighborhood has basically morphed into Williamsburg, The Sequel. But we were here first and since Stacey finally convinced her old landlord to sell her the place she rented for the last twenty years—never doubt her ability to hold out for what she wants—I guarantee we’ll be here long after they run off to the suburbs, having discovered the joys of free parking and riding lawn mowers.)

  I want to say that lunch ends on a high note, but it doesn’t. Right before Gina has to leave for an afternoon meeting, she receives a call that her friend’s husband died from a cardiac event. He was forty-six years old.

  Forty-six.

  My age.

  I’d actually met the man at a party back in the spring. He left an impression on me because he had such a beautiful wife and they seemed so happy togeth
er.

  I hate that everything can be taken away in an instant.

  I’m quietly reflective as I drive from the restaurant to my old neighborhood. Between the news of this good man’s passing and wandering my old stomping grounds, I feel out of sorts, like everything’s suddenly askew.

  I mean, just look at Damen Avenue in Bucktown. What was once the bastion of coolness at the turn of the twenty-first century, with record shops and dive bars everywhere, has morphed into the Mall of America. We used to live around the corner from a guy who had a pet pig named Bacon. And this wasn’t a pot-bellied pig; he was the real full-sized deal. Now there’s nothing but Bugaboo strollers and black Labs. For crying out loud, there’s a Marc Jacobs here now and the only free-range pork to be found is in the carnitas bowl at Chipotle.

  While looking for a place to park by the tattoo shop, I pass my old building, which looks exactly the same as I left it twelve years ago. Except when I walked out those doors at that time, Fletch and I were newly married, unemployed, and terrified. We were desperately trying to figure out what we were going to do to survive. And suddenly, we weren’t solely responsible for ourselves—we had a couple of little dogs, too. How were we going to feed Maisy and Loki when we weren’t even sure how we’d take care of ourselves?

  At that low point in my life, I never imagined I’d be surrounded by an incredible support network of friends who’d fulfill the roles of family in my life. I hadn’t a clue as to how pet ownership would impact my every decision, starting with trying to become a writer so I could stay home with Maisy. I couldn’t have guessed the kind of life Fletch and I would build for ourselves, and how we’d continue to grow together instead of falling apart in times of crisis.

  Honestly, I’m glad I can’t go back in time and tell myself it will all be okay, because I’ve needed to experience every high and low from the past decade to be not only where I am, but who I am, today.

  Despite having had an anonymous Greek chorus in my ear for the past few years, telling me that I’m doing it all wrong, I realize I can’t change anyone’s perceptions and trying to do so would be fruitless.

  All I can do is to find peace within myself and the surest path is to continue to eliminate that which I regret.

  Each accomplishment on my bucket list has been inordinately satisfactory, from the simple pleasure of finding a new backbeat when I drive with the top down, to connecting with the culture that’s influenced me in so many ways. Even though I haven’t yet gotten around to taking a self-defense class, that’s still on my list and it’s something I look forward to doing. Now, my world seems so much larger than it did a year ago. I’ve always feared growing older because I thought I’d run out of interests, but what this project has taught me is that I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I could try next. I can’t possibly stagnate when everything feels brand-new and there’s so much more to explore, especially with Fletcher beside me.

  Plus, I have a new hobby that not only fulfills me, but also helps me cover unexpected expenses like buying Prozac for my weird little dog. (Yes, I do wonder exactly how funny the Italians would find the notion of dog therapists.) Discovering I have other marketable skills makes me less anxious for the future. So much regret is mitigated when there’s an actionable plan in place. Couple this discovery with the realization that my things shouldn’t own me and that life’s meant to be lived, not displayed on Pinterest, and my sense is I’ve finally achieved something close to balance.

  I feel excellent about actually having done more for others this year, rather than just posting status updates about how one could theoretically pursue service. And I’ll definitely not regret taking a giant leap away from social media. I figure I was part of the first wave toward social networking, and I’m just as glad to be among the first to walk away.

  Most of all, I’m so happy to have finally cracked my own code in terms of my health. I finally understand what drives me and I have a better grasp on how not to derail myself. I don’t expect perfection; ergo, I won’t be disappointed when I don’t attain it. I’ve learned the importance of cutting myself a break, which is the most expedient path to a life lived without qualms, misgivings, and sorrow.

  So I open the door to Vamoose, ready to begin to remove the tangible proof of so many poor choices and bad decisions.

  Because regretting nothing is the new black.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  What’s the opposite of regret? Welcome? Applaud? Because the following people are and have been instrumental in helping me mitigate my regrets, I both applaud and welcome you. (I know the welcome sounds weird—just go with it.)

  For Tracy Bernstein, thank you for knowing what I mean even when I’m not even sure what I mean. I promise at some point I will learn the difference between “each other” and “one another” and also where to place the word “only” in a sentence. You are a saint and a scholar. For reals.

  For Kara Welsh, thanks for taking a chance on a bitter ex– sorority girl all those years ago. Hope I’ve done you proud. And many thanks to Claire Zion, as well. You’re my guiding lights.

  Craig Burke, you’re the best, even though we’re about to be locked in an arms race over who can buy our dogs more costumes/sweaters. Jessica Butler, I’m your trial by fire, and you never cease to amaze with your firefighting prowess. There are many big things ahead, and I’m so excited for you!

  For Sales, Marketing, Art, Audio, Speakers’ Bureau, Production, and Contracting/Royalties—thanks for all you do. You are my village. (As in it takes a—get it?) And for Copyediting, I will always write out times, dollar amounts, and decades going forward. Swearsies. I make no promises on understanding the differences between further and farther, though—that shit is tricky.

  For Scott Miller (and all the drummers from Spinal Tap), none of this happens without you. You go to eleven.

  I don’t know where I’d be without authors like Stacey Ballis, Karyn Bosnak, Quinn Cummings, Laurie Notaro, Sarah Pekkanen, Amy Hatvany, Beth Harbison, Emily Giffin, Jolene Siana, Jenny Mollen, Liz Fenton, Lisa Steinke, Jennifer Coburn, Jennifer Weiner, and Allie Larkin having my back. It’s not trite to say “so blessed” when you really mean it. Really, for all the brilliant writers out there who inspire me to try harder, thank you. (And Amy Bromberg, we love you for being our biggest cheerleader!)

  An extra-special thanks goes to Laurie Dolan, my rock, my sounding board, and my bestest Starbucks buddy. Life is better for knowing you, which means I will be relentless until you finish your own manuscript.

  For Lisa Lampanelli and Luke McCollum, my spirit animals—I’ll never miss another Annual Bitches at the Beach again. But at least we had Pageant!

  For my girls Tracey and Gina, my family by choice—every day is Thanksgiving with you. For Joanna, Julia, Allison, and Alex—I swear on all that is porcine, we will have our sweet, sweet revenge. Count on it. (Remember, being bitter is what got me here in the first place.) Rachel and Trenna—thanks for Savannah, even if you all didn’t make it there. (Still looking at you, United.) For Kathleen, Chris, and Finn, my fairy godson—you are tangible proof that faith plus patience equals dreams coming true.

  For my boys Benjamin, Jon, and Jonathan—luff you! Never change.

  For Kristin and Cecilia at Re-Invent—you give me hope for the next generation.

  For everyone who should be thanked here but I’ve missed—I really need to start taking better notes. (Am old and I forget things now. My apologies.)

  For Fletch, the only person I’d ever choose to sit next to for ten hours in Coach. Here’s to twenty years and counting! I won’t get squishy because you don’t actually read my books (he says he doesn’t have to because he lives them). Instead, I’ll say this—sorry I’m not sorry about the three-wheeled bike. Thank you for being the best sport. And for the beasts—although I regret what you do to my floors every day, you’re worth it. (But if you could stop peeing on the drapes in
my office, I’d appreciate it.)

  Finally, for the readers, the libraries, and the booksellers, thank you for always and forever.

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