Do some women go too far? It’s not my place to judge, but when I see someone whose features have dramatically changed, I wonder if there aren’t other issues that need to be addressed to find peace of mind. I’m hoping I won’t want a lift or a snip when I’m seventy. I just hope I get there. If I reach that age, I’ll be thrilled to be alive. I’m more concerned about watching my children grow up than I am about my face or anything else succumbing to gravity. Perspective—that’s the key.
I stayed in that plush recovery spa for four days. At home, I wore a big shirt and a postsurgery bra. The girls thought my back was in a lot of pain. I spent a couple days in bed, propped up with pillows, catching up on my favorite TV shows. A week later, I was able to drive. By February, I was able to do light lower-body workouts. Now my breasts are the size and shape I wanted back when I was nineteen, though I wish I’d felt confident enough with my body to have never had surgery in the first place. It would’ve saved me a lot of pain and money.
For the record, I haven’t had any other operations. Nor will I. I’m done. As I said, I don’t care about defying age. My goal is to live a long and full life, and I’ll take all the wrinkles God wants to give me if I can watch my children and their children grow up.
3
I NEVER HAD to worry about my weight until my dad moved in with me after my mom died and took over the cooking. Not one to deprive myself, I ate everything he served, relying on my metabolism to burn up the calories, just as it always had. But something happened. Either my body chemistry suddenly changed or I consumed more than my internal furnace could handle. One day I woke up fifteen to eighteen pounds heavier than I was when I bought everything in my closet. Nothing fit the way I wanted, in a way that felt comfortable, which was the way the rest of my life was going at the time. Without my mom, fighting with Charlie, and remaking my life, I wasn’t comfortable.
It made me finally understand emotional weight. I have plenty of friends who look for comfort in what they consider the four basic food groups—sugar, salt, dairy, and starch. One bad phone call, argument, or disappointment and you can hear the bag of chips being opened. Later, they punish themselves even more for eating when they should’ve been doing something constructive to improve the situation. No one’s ever found long-term solutions in a bag of Oreos. Indeed, I’ve never been one of those who glide into the pantry looking for succor. But I was definitely feeling dark and heavy, and the heaviness went straight to my midsection and my thighs. It was textbook psychology 101: my way of protecting myself from the sadness and pain of losing my mom. It was also some kind of silent communication between my dad and me. The turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes were conduits through which we shared our feelings. “Pass the potatoes” was really code for “I’m hanging in there. It’s going to take time.”
When we shot an episode of It’s Complicated in Hawaii, I refused to wear a bikini. It was the first time in my life I felt uncomfortable wearing a bathing suit. I wore shorts and a bikini top instead and incorporated my weight gain into the story line. We were a reality show, after all. It got even more real when paparazzi photos of me on the beach surfaced under headlines that were more like body blows: “She’s Not Pregnant! She’s Fat!” It was kind of sad at a size 4 I was portrayed as being fat but this is the reality of my business. It hurt my feelings and as much as I wished those editors would cut me some slack, it was a wake-up call—not that I needed waking up.
I did a photo shoot where I couldn’t fit into the clothes the stylist had pulled for me. I had trouble wiggling into a pair of pants even when I was wearing Spanx. I was disgusted. I didn’t want to be that girl who people saw and thought, “Holy shit, she let herself go.”
The trainers I’d worked out with over the years had always told me to go by the way my clothes fit, not by weight. Forget what the scale says; listen to your body. It was great advice. I knew my body was talking to me. My barometer was a favorite pair of jeans, and they were telling me I needed to get in better shape. Luckily, I listened. By the time I finished shooting the second season of my reality show, I was tired of feeling as if my ass were dragging five seconds behind the rest of me. Do you know the feeling? I was dragging, not my best, and I didn’t like it. Maybe it was a sign I was starting to heal—or wanted to. I didn’t spend too much time analyzing it. I just knew I was ready for a change.
I was feeling like a fat fuck and I said to myself, “Enough! You can’t sit here and complain. Do something about it.” So I did. I got a trainer and made a commitment to get back into shape. I checked my schedule, figured out when I had to get the girls up and ready for school, what else was on my agenda, and found the only time available for a consistent workout was at 5:00 a.m. When my trainer said he was willing to start pre-sunrise, I had no choice but to get started.
Though I barely had time for a cup of coffee, I worked out six days a week. It took a while before I felt good. The first few weeks were tough. I had to push myself to get back into the routine. Sometimes I had to do more than push myself. The verbal war that was waged in my head was not pleasant to listen to. As I’ve repeatedly said, change is gradual and hard—and that’s especially true at five o’clock in the morning.
When I signed up for Dancing, Maks whipped my ass further into shape, and I noticed the sweat and punishment paying off. I’ll tell you what also helped: I made a conscious decision to cook my own meals. I didn’t fire my dad from kitchen duty as much as I relieved him of responsibility for me. I reintroduced veggies, fruits, and salads, in small to moderate portions, back to the dinner table. If I did sample some of my dad’s potatoes, I took a spoonful, not a bowl. I didn’t deprive myself—and still don’t. If I’m in a restaurant and feel like chips and guacamole, I order it. I just don’t eat a pound of it. I returned to the way I used to eat. I fueled my body instead of feeding my emotions. I don’t know how my dad, in his late fifties, stayed skinny. But he did. Good genes, I suppose.
Weight is a tricky and sensitive subject, not unlike plastic surgery, except you do the work yourself. As I said, listen to your body, not the scale. You can apply that method to almost anything: in most situations, if you listen to your inner voice and to your heart, you’ll make the right decision. I know it’s a cliché, but so what, it’s true. I’ve tried to pay attention to the messages my body sends me, and as a result I feel better now physically, mentally, and spiritually than I did in my twenties, which, given everything I’ve been through, is proof enough for me that the simplest approach works best.
Back when I couldn’t afford to hire a private trainer, I wanted to get in good, organized workouts, and I found inexpensive classes in kickboxing, aerobics, and mat classes with no cardio. When I made my first movie, Tammy and the T-Rex, I met an actress with the most killer body. She walked around eating celery, but she looked damn good. I asked if she worked out. She said, “Pilates.” I’d never heard the word. “What the hell is that?” I asked.
Now I own a Pilates reformer. I bought it after Lola was born and still use it regularly. My sister prefers the mat workout. Either way, Pilates lengthens and stretches your body and, in my case, works muscles I never knew I had. It was the only exercise that flattened my tummy after having two C-sections—though I’m not fanatical about needing perfect abs, or perfect anything. That whole idea of perfection—what does that mean? What is it other than a sure way to drive yourself to permanent needless frustration?
I am more comfortable in my skin today than I was in my twenties, and I do much less worrying than I did back then. I think that comes with experience, and being confident and secure that I have a grasp of what’s important. I also know that every woman, no matter her size or shape, has good days and bad days. I’ve been around some of the most beautiful women in the world, actresses and models, and I’ve heard them say, “God, I feel so ugly today.” It’s nothing you can see. It has to do with how they feel on the inside. That’s why I constantly remind myself that if I tend to the way I feel emotionally and spiritually,
my body will follow. If people focused on that, no one would diet.
But let me make a few confessions to ensure you know that I’m living in the real world:
• I love ordering mac-n-cheese with french fries off the kids’ menu at hotels.
• My favorite sweet indulgence is Häagen-Dazs mint-chip ice cream.
• My cocktail of choice is a Belvedere Lemon Drop.
• There ain’t nothing like a bowl of chips and guacamole, and I have a good recipe.
• At the movies I put M&M’s in my popcorn and eat them together.
• My favorite go-to snack is pretzels.
• I don’t work out every day. A good week now is five days, a bad week is one day, and a very bad week is zero.
• My least favorite part of my body is my stomach.
• My favorite body part? My arms. A close second are my expensive breasts.
• I’m pretty good at doing my own makeup.
• I still can’t style my hair well.
• My spray tan makes me feel thinner.
• My hair color is naturally dark, dark blond; if you need proof, look at my daughters.
Those tidbits are fun, but lest anyone get the wrong impression, I take care of myself to feel healthy and balanced, but I also do it to make sure my girls have a healthy and balanced role model. Having grown up with a mom who was an exceptional role model, I know the influence my behavior has on them, good and bad. They are still young, but girls and young women—make that women of every age—are bombarded with messages in the media about how we should look and feel, as if there were one particular, right way. There isn’t. The best way to feel is confident—confident within yourself, and with yourself. Between what I do for a living and the chaos that’s permeated my personal life, it’s been a challenge.
For my being on set, photo shoots, and red carpet events, Sami and Lola see me getting my hair and makeup done, stylists dressing me, a manicurist painting my nails, and even someone coming to the house to spray-tan me, and I want them to have a healthy outlook on self-image and their bodies, and I try to instill that, but I feel like such a hypocrite when they see me work. I constantly explain that it’s my job. When Mommy does photo shoots or acts, she’s playing a character. It isn’t real life.
One day, Sami was on set with me and asked, “Mom, why don’t you do your own makeup when you work?” Her question surprised me. It was one of those straightforward, honest questions, asked without guile, which would only come from a kid. I didn’t know what the hell to say. I had to take a moment and think about it. “They’re professionals,” I said finally. “It’s their job. Just like Mommy’s doing a job.” I had no idea whether that was right or wrong in terms of what she was really asking. Maybe it did address her question. She seemed satisfied. At least I’d told her the truth. Later, I wondered what my mom would’ve said if I’d asked her for advice. As a child, I’d loved watching her do her makeup and polish her nails. I’m sure that’s the origin of my girly-girl passions. At the same time, through most of my childhood, she didn’t have any hair. Looking back, I realized that gave me perspective; my mom was so real. The best I can do for my girls is to be the same. The reality in this world is that people do judge on appearances, but for all the clothes, makeup, and tan you can possibly put on, it doesn’t change who you are on the inside, which is where you have to do the most work.
I can already hear myself talking to my girls when they’re teenagers worrying about pimples, hair, fashion, and their figures. You can be anything you want in life, I’ll say, but the thing you want to strive for most of all is to be someone you like.
That’s true at any age.
4
RESILIENCY IS A key concept in our house. Since my girls are young, I don’t lecture about overcoming setbacks, putting one foot in front of the other, and looking forward instead of getting bogged down in the past. Instead, I try to teach by example—the same way my parents showed me, starting when we moved to California. After I split with Richie, I turned down every invitation that came my way. I didn’t even want to answer the phone in case it was a friend pleading with me to go to dinner if only to get my sorry ass out of the house. I made excuses. I was busy or had kids’ stuff. I found a reason to say no.
Only gradually did my agent and a few persistent friends force me out of my hermit phase, and then it was as if a switch went off. Why was I holing up inside? Yes, I was hiding out from the paparazzi and the likelihood of finding myself at the center of another scandalous story. I was too humiliated to show my face. The hardest thing for anyone coming out of a broken relationship is to arrive at a dinner party alone—and in the early days, I thought everyone would be whispering, “Look, there’s that girl who stole her friend’s husband.” It took everything in me to keep going to my mommy-and-me classes with the girls. I was embarrassed, wondering what the other moms thought of me. But the reality was, there was never a scandal in the first place, I didn’t steal my friend’s husband, and I enjoyed going out and doing things—I loved being social—and so I said, “What the hell have I got to lose?” and I started to attend events and parties and even went on the occasional secret date.
By 2010, though, I wasn’t the problem any longer. It was my dad. After he moved in with me, he rented out his and my mom’s house in Oceanside. As we shot the reality show, he settled into a nice routine of cooking and handling the household chores. I enjoyed having him there, as well as the convenience of another adult in the house. Plus the girls didn’t have a father at the house every day, so it was a bonus to have a grandfather who was present and involved. All the activity kept him occupied and gave him a purpose every day. We helped each other through a hard time.
But we faced another hard time when I finally broached a subject neither of us wanted to touch. My dad was only sixty years old. Vigorous and in great shape, I asked what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He obviously couldn’t live with us forever. “You need to get on with your life,” I said. With a glitch in my throat, I felt guilty as those words came out. I saw the same thing my dad saw in his tear-filled eyes—my mom standing on the other side of the room. But she wasn’t looking on with disapproval. “I didn’t lose my spouse to death,” I continued. “But I lost my spouse. I’m not comparing the two at all. You and mom were together for almost forty years. But I did lose my family unit. In a very public and humiliating manner. You and mom always told me that I couldn’t let it stop me from moving forward and living my life, and now I’m telling you the same thing. You can’t let it stop you from living your life.”
He wiped his eyes. “You need to figure out who you are, what you like, and what your interests are,” I said.
He stared at me with a look of incredulity. “It sounds like you’re telling me to date.”
I nodded. “As hard as it is to believe, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. You need to get out there. You don’t have to think of it as romantic or long term. Think about it in terms of enjoying another person’s company and friendship. Don’t put any pressure on yourself. Don’t label it. But you never know where things can go.”
Several months later, he began spending time back in Ocean-side. When I asked what he was up to, he was vague, providing so few details that I was reminded of the stilted conversations we had when I was a teenager trying to hide that I’d snuck out of my room the night before even though he and my mom already knew. When I pressed for information, he merely said, “I’ve got plans.”
Okay, I thought, when he’s ready to tell me, I’ll be there to listen. Whatever that phase was ended, and another woman clearly began occupying his dinnertimes and weekends, and one day, as we shared coffee and a pastry in the kitchen, I finally asked, “Why are you lying to me? You act like you’re doing something wrong. You aren’t. I just want to know.”
He looked relieved. “I wasn’t sure how you and your sister would feel about it.”
I took a sip of coffee. “I was the one who encouraged you to
start getting out there, remember?”
My sister didn’t want to hear anything about my dad’s social life. She had a hard time with it, and that was partly why my dad had been vague. “Why would I tell her if it’s going to hurt her?” It was surreal to have the roles flipped. At times, I felt as if I didn’t have any parents left, which was simultaneously hard and weird. But Irv Richards is an amazing dad; he was an amazing husband. He is an amazing man, who deserves to have a life, and I supported him. If I was bothered, which happened from time to time, I hid it from him, and I advised my sister to do the same. “If we have a problem, we need to deal with it and not take it to Dad,” I said. “At the end of the day, we want him to be happy.”
As my dad ventured into new waters, I faced some big life decisions of my own. Unable to sell my old house in the Valley, I had to decide whether to radically drop the price and take a big loss or move back in and give up the rental where we’d been living in Palisades. Since it was silly to take a financial hit on a great house whose mortgage I could afford, I returned to the house we’d left a year earlier, which meant the end of my attempt to live closer to town. As I packed, I recalled having moved more than a year earlier to put more light in my life; now, I was in such a different place in my life that I felt as if I were taking the light with me back home. Like my girls, I had a good, warm feeling when I said those words, “back home.”
Real Girl Next Door Page 19