When I was growing up we had a pool, the rectangular kind, with a sky blue bottom and an electronic cover. In the winter it was ignored, but by May it was the epicenter of all my parents’ social soirees, everything from pool parties to stop-bys. At the end of the day our lawn would be littered with half-empty cups of iced tea and wet towels. And there was always a Barbie’s head or tennis ball blocking one of the drains. My mother used to spend hours in her emerald green one-piece bathing suit straining the leaves from the water’s surface with a long-handled pool net. For her it was very therapeutic.
In the spring of 1971, the pool was eerily still. There was no cacophony of shouting teenagers doing cannonballs into the chlorinated water. The household was consumed with the arrival of my younger sister, Fiona, who had been born late that April. Everything was much grander than when I entered the world. Granted, my parents’ marriage was on the rocks, but photos portray my infant years in a simple existence of a sparsely decorated room with a makeshift crib and a window that overlooked an overgrown maple tree. Fiona’s birth was like a royal coronation. Where I was dressed in formula-stained onesies, Fiona was adorned in long silk gowns that seemed to flow down the back of her princess crib, down the hallway, down the stairs, and down the street. There were all but animated woodland creatures singing in unison and tying pink bows around the Moses basket that held her. I watched from the stairs, my face smashed against the banister rods like a prisoner, as Fiona was toted into our house from the hospital for the first time. My stepfather held her up in the air like baby Simba in The Lion King for all to admire.
For the next couple of years all I heard was, “Shhhhhhh. . . . The baby is sleeping.” I don’t think I was allowed to touch Fiona’s head for fear I might sully the crown.
It was when she was a year old and I was seven that I experienced one of the moments in life, a metaphysical fork in the road, that could have altered my life forever. I mean like American Horror Story altered. My mother was doing her usual pensive leaf cleaning and I was reclining on a plastic chaise longue wearing my brother’s old plaid shirt and a surly attitude. Fiona was displayed on the grass in a petal pink smock dress and matching slippers. With her big blue eyes and auburn ringlets, she was the picture of perfection. She was just learning to walk and would stand up, wobble, then fall on her ruffled bloomers. I placated my crankiness by smashing ants with my thumb.
I was pondering how many grapes I could fit in my mouth without choking when Fiona, walking like a drunken uncle on Thanksgiving, grabbed the side of my chaise. She was completely focused as her brain and limbs began working in unison like baby Frankenstein. She let go and put her arms in front of her as if there were an invisible bar that would hold her up. My sharklike eyes took in her chubby little thighs and innocent adorableness. And then, as if possessed by an evil spirit, I lightly tapped my foot against the slope of her back and pushed. I watched her plummet into the water and drop like a stone. The chubby arms that had been searching for balance in the air were now groping for something to pull her up. Her eyes were closed and bubbles encircled her head. And I just watched in fascination. Like I did my lava lamp.
My mother looked over at me and dropped the net. “Where’s Fiona?”
And as if she’d asked something innocuous like, “What’s for lunch?” I silently and slowly pointed down toward the pool. My mother dropped the net, ran down the slate tiles, and jumped into the shallow end. Fiona shrieked loudly as my mother pulled her from the pool. My mother yelled at me as I scuttled, in shock, into the house.
Fiona was fine, but I was shaken to the core. It wasn’t that I wasn’t capable of such an action—it was the mindless impulse of a child—but that I never considered the consequences. My brain hadn’t developed the notion of follow-through with such an impulse. As adults, of course, we know not to surrender to every subconscious whim. I don’t go around sticking my tongue down every handsome stranger’s mouth I see. Just to be clear, that’s bad, right?
My children were silent. And frightened. I suddenly realized that sometimes life lessons have consequences too. There are consequences to consequences. However, my kids have not hit each other once since I told them the tale. In fact, they started sleeping in the same bed. And my little sister? Well, suffice it to say she’s an excellent swimmer.
Wellness
IF ANYONE YOUNG IS READING THIS, GO, RIGHT
THIS MINUTE, PUT ON A BIKINI, AND DON’T TAKE IT
OFF UNTIL YOU’RE THIRTY-FOUR.
—NORA EPHRON
CHAPTER 17
Move Me
I hate exercise. It’s boring, it’s laborious, and it hurts. I have never experienced the infamous endorphin rush from hours of stair mastering, strenuous sex, or running through the Dakotas (North and South). Maybe if I had, I’d be a professional athlete and not sitting on my windowsill with a bag of kettle corn watching the New York Marathon. Now don’t get me wrong: I like a friendly game of tennis, a relaxing swim, and I get very competitive with flashlight tag. I’m just not a gym rat.
Early in our marriage my husband used to give me fitness club subscriptions and value packs for my own trainer every Christmas. They got lost or were used to scribble grocery lists on. I’ve probably accumulated about sixteen thousand hours of gym time that I’ve never traded in. Maybe I would have a stronger, more flexible body? Maybe, but I would have missed a lot of good TV.
When I was in my early twenties I hired a trainer, Kyle, mostly because every actress I knew in Los Angeles had one. The same reason I listened to the Spice Girls. The first day Kyle had me do squats up and down my street, which, I felt, should only be reserved to torture inmates accused of securities fraud and money laundering. My knees shook, I was sweating profusely, and my ass tried to extract itself from the rest of my body and take off in my Ford Fiesta. The second day, sore and popping Advil, I asked Kyle about his love life to distract him from my imminent sit-ups. The hour went by like a shot as he regaled me with stories about his lascivious boyfriend, who was a serial cheater. He was so immersed in detailing the play-by-play in his world of gay Hollywood Adonises and their revolving door of bedmates, he didn’t notice that the blue workout ball had become my pillow. For six months my money was spent curled up on my carpet listening to Kyle’s stories—like sands in the hourglass, so were the gays of his life.
My thirties were devoted to Scrabble and birthing children. I may have gone skiing once or twice. And by skiing I mean I saw snow. I did have many dogs, so I must have walked a few miles? But that was the extent of my physical activity in the early part of the twenty-first century.
But something happened in my forties in the wake of two children and a preoccupation with lobster potpie: my body morphed. My daughters started calling me “squishy Mommy.” And when my elder daughter came into my bathroom one evening and saw me standing there naked and soapy, she shrieked in horror, “I’M not going to look like that when I’m older, am I?” There was some pizza dough dangling from the wrong places, and if I reached up high to get a wineglass my midsection resembled those neck pillows you buy in the airport for long flights. So, okay, I was not tight. But the last thing I wanted to do was forbid myself cheese fondue, homemade bread, and raw cookie dough. I love food. I spend afternoons dreaming about dinner—a burger with cheddar and bacon, maybe linguine with clams, and grilled peaches with cinnamon ice cream. Just for example. I could never give up dairy and sugar and gluten. I don’t even know what gluten is, but I know I love it.
So that left exercise. I can’t tell you how many moms drop off their kids at school in their spandex leggings and Nike tank tops and say to each other, “As long as I do Pilates and forty-five minutes of cardio, I can eat whatever I want.” Pilates and forty-five minutes of cardio? They elect to do that? They choose pain over apple cider doughnuts and Live with Kelly and Michael? But the fact remained that if I was going to eat like a linebacker, I had to compensate with movement.
The icing on the lemon poppy seed cake with cream ch
eese frosting was my annual physical evaluation with my internist. “You’ve lost a lot of muscle mass,” she informed me seconds into the examination.
“Does that mean I’m thinner?” I smiled.
She paused for a moment and then quite sternly asked me, “Do you have a living will?”
I was so depressed walking home from the doctor’s office I had to stop at Magnolia Bakery and inhale two red velvet cupcakes. I realized that exercise was no longer about looking svelte in a sleeveless shirt; it was about not losing my balance, falling down, breaking a hip, and becoming immobile for the rest of my life. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the National Institute of Aging Web site.
In the past, the only time my body had been fit and firm was when I was depressed. I wouldn’t eat and walked around in circles all night biting my nails. But you can’t conjure up a bout of depression. I even begged my husband to leave me for a couple of years and when I was down to my fighting weight, come back. He thought there was an easier way to get healthy.
I finally decided to find a fitness regimen and avoid my demise. This meant asking my hale and vigorous friends what their exercise routines looked like. I figured I would test-drive a few before I found “the one.” You know, like dating.
My friend Lana has a sinewy body with stretchy limbs and limber legs. A look I coveted. And so I went to my first yoga class. Not the hot Bikram yoga, where everyone excretes all their nasty toxins and fluids in your face and a fart becomes a napalm bomb, but the light and breezy yoga as portrayed on Caribbean spa brochures.
I bought accessories, naturally: soft billowy white yoga pants and cotton tank tops with little printed Buddhas on them and a lime green mat with a lavender lotus. This was just my speed: comfy clothes, no weights, and no loud music. Maybe even a nap. Namaste.
I sat Indian style on my mat as younger women with loose braids and armpit hair descended onto the maplewood floor. There was lots of stretching and breathing and toe cracking. An intense aroma awakened my gag reflex and I assumed it was some hideous musk incense to ward off evil spirits only to realize that the dude wearing a shark tooth necklace next to me who looked like Jesus Christ had submerged himself in a bucket of patchouli oil. This proved difficult during the inhaling portion of the program. It’s times like these when I wish my vagina would pitch in and do some of the breathing.
Yoga was not for me, I decided quickly. It was too passive. I realized I did need disco music and an Olivia Newton-John–looking lady in leg warmers to jump up and down and scream, “Let’s get physical!” Was there such a thing as disco yoga? I pretended I had to pee when we were told to touch our toes (I can barely touch my knees) and left the class and my mat forever. It, however, wasn’t a total loss; I still sleep in the yoga clothes.
For years I tried to subscribe to the adage “I’ll have what she’s having” when it came to Gwyneth Paltrow. I don’t have the patience to keep my blond hair that buttery hue and the cleansing ritual strikes me as running the risk of expelling vital organs, but her body . . . I figured we were the same age (give or take a decade) and that perhaps she was on to something when it came to having a champion physique. At the time she was doing two hours of intense cardio (based on videos on her Web site goop). Well, I thought, I can do that! It’s just dancing! And dancing is fun! Who doesn’t like dancing? I called a dance instructor who taught ballet, swing, and weight-loss salsa on Thursdays at the YMCA. As you can tell, I approach fitness the way most women approach a haircut. Some women tear out a photo of Meg Ryan in a magazine and take it to the salon: “I want that cut.” I tear a photo of Gisele Bündchen out of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition and say, “I want that bod.”
The first day of my physical metamorphosis I wore biker shorts and a cross-back sports top that took me two hours to put on. I was certain having one boob exposed and the other boob half matted down by a strap wasn’t right. Nicole, my instructor, also wore little black biker shorts and a neon pink midriff halter top. She was Maxim magazine hot; I was Zumba instructor from Maine hot. Nicole was pure muscle. A ravenous cannibal would throw her back. She’d be the last human eaten on the snowy mountain crash site. I’d be third.
We entered the pristine gym. It was a sauna. The heat was turned up to 90 degrees to get the sweat glands pumping. My sweat glands dried up like raisins. Nicole started jumping up and down like a toddler cracked out on Skittles. The speakers blared Keisha as Nicole screamed, “Yeah,” and “Woo!”
After a few sideways vines, I felt like I was going to black out. Nicole immediately stopped the music and escorted me outside for some fresh air. You would have thought it was bring your great-grandmother to work day. She looked with terror at my splotchy purple face; clearly she had never experienced anyone so close to expiration. “You okay? We’ve only worked out for one and a half minutes.”
My head was between my legs and I poured a bottle of water down my neck. We sat on the grass for about twenty minutes until my color was back to its natural light gray. “Shall we go back?”
How dare she push me so hard; I wasn’t training for the Olympics. “Okay,” I said, “but can we turn off the heat?”
“Sure.”
“And maybe change the music?”
Nicole thought if we danced it would awaken many of the muscles in my thighs that had never been used before. I was like a baby colt learning to walk.
“You’re going to turn, turn, sashay, and kick,” Nicole sang. I had a posttraumatic flashback of taking (failing) tap in acting school. I was always in the back of the class doing my best Gene Kelly impression, just without the grace, talent, or skill. I shuffled up to the wall of mirrors and back toward the door. Twice. Then sashayed out the door to throw up in the parking lot. I think Nicole thought I had a terminal disease. As I wiped my mouth with a wet wipe, I waved the white flag.
“Okay, I get it, but the first day is always tough; I’ll see you Friday!” she said and smiled. That was the last time I ever saw Nicole. Now when I see a photo of Gwyneth Paltrow in a magazine looking physically impeccable, I know firsthand the work and sweat it took to get that way. I wonder if she thinks the same about me?
“Oh my God, I am OBSESSED with SoulCycle!” Gillian must have said twenty times during lunch. “It’s so fun, you forget you’re even working out!” And that was the tag line I had been waiting for. The only better endorsement would be, “You don’t even know you’re exercising because you’re asleep the whole time!” I remember hearing a myth that in the 1950s women would be put under general anesthesia when they went into labor and upon awakening, found themselves cleaned, stitched, hair blown out, and cradling a baby. There must be a way to do that with exercise?
SoulCycle has a line of clothing that I had to peruse before fully committing. It took me all of four minutes to purchase some Soul Sweat capris and a hologram skull Soul tank. I met Gillian at the sought-after class in midtown Manhattan. Apparently SoulCycle instructors have a hierarchy of popularity based on their enthusiasm and playlist. I even heard rumors of wealthy hedge fund wives who left their paunchy husbands for glistening female instructors with big guns. I have a striking friend who loses her impetus to sweat if the lady instructor doesn’t flirt with her.
Well, yoga may have been too passive, but SoulCycle was too aggressive. I can’t enter a dark room with booming disco rap without my roller skates and jazz hands. I was not just intimidated: I was frightened. When I mounted the bike, the seat hit my vagina bone in such a way that it caused the kind of painful jolt only felt once before in sixth-grade art class when I rammed into the corner of the art table and thought I’d lost my virginity. I waved to Gillian to carry on, dismounted, and disappeared into the lobby. I walked home like a wounded cowgirl.
When I got back to the apartment, I crawled onto my heating pad in my bed with the rest of my Juice Press chocolate protein smoothie I felt I’d earned. I decided to make an exercise list in order to prune my choices:
1. Aerobics: I have a heart murmur.
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br /> 2. Ballet: too old.
3. Baseball: need a team.
4. Basketball: too short.
5. Biking: bulbous vagina.
6. Boating: need a boat.
7. Bowling: need a league.
8. Boxing: those girls scare me.
9. Canoeing: in Manhattan?
10. Football: soft skull.
11. Frisbee: not without pot and a black Lab.
12. Golf: if I didn’t have kids. And a life.
13. Gymnastics: only in bed.
14. Hiking: blech.
15. Horseback riding: need a horse.
16. Hula hooping: flatulent.
17. Ice-skating: bad knees (but love the clothes).
18. Jogging: never.
19. Juggling: why not jousting?
20. Jump rope: uncoordinated.
21. Laser tag: Huh?
22. Ping-Pong: if I sell the dining room table.
23. Rock climbing: vertigo.
24. Roller skating: at the Playboy mansion?
25. Running: over my dead body.
26. Skiing: only in the lodge.
27. Swimming: green hair.
28. Tae Kwon Do: don’t speak Chinese.
29. Tennis: that elbow thing.
30. Trampoline: vomit.
31. Walking: have to leave something for eighty.
32. Weight lifting: I’m straight.
I slurped the last vestiges of chocolate shavings at the bottom of my cup. I was proud of myself. I had thoroughly gone through all the physical options and, as it turned out, was not suitable for any of them. Like mustard and strawberry jam, exercise and I were not the right match.
Happily Ali After: And Other Fairly True Tales Page 11