I Regret Nothing: A Memoir

by Jen Lancaster

  I have to get past this.

  Ultimately, my goal in life is to arrive at the finish line without having regrets. I don’t want to reflect on my time on this earth and beat myself up for not having made an effort, for not pushing myself, for allowing small obstacles or personal pride to stand in my way. I don’t want to be there on my deathbed wondering what was so damn hard about riding a bike in the first place.

  As I draft these ideas, I realize that most of what I want to try requires some planning, which totally makes sense. I believe a bucket list item should entail effort, practice, or execution because if anything on the list were easy, I wouldn’t feel like I’d earned the check mark.

  My theory is that success will help rebuild the kind of confidence that I’ve allowed assholes on social media to chip away over the past few years.

  Remind me, was everyone happier back in the days before anyone with a broadband connection and a keyboard could absolutely crucify complete strangers with their words? I suspect that yes, we were. Jesus, I’m still reeling from the anonymous Chicago Tribune commenter who suggested that I “go back to [my] job behind the perfume counter” rather than continue to try to write a column.

  That stung. Big-time.

  On a more positive note, I’ll wager that the pursuit of achievement in each case will be just as important as checking the item off my list. Sure, I’ll go to Italy, but all the planning, the research, and the preparation that goes into getting me there will make me appreciate the journey even more.

  In terms of striving for success and personal development, I’d also like to:

  Start a new line of business.

  I’m very happy writing books and I can’t imagine I’d ever willingly retire. Work fulfills me too much and I’m at the point where I’ve developed a better work-life balance. I’m more conscientious about scheduling time to vacuum, even when I’m on deadline. And our diets are far less cupcake-based now than when previous manuscripts were due. So, that’s a bonus.

  I’d love to write forever, but there are a couple of inherent problems here. First, my whole industry’s been flipped on its ear due to changes in not only how books are published, but who publishes them. Five years ago, the notion of self-publishing was a joke, but now it’s a viable option and suddenly the market’s flooded with new material. With the advent of the iPad, if I’m any indication, people are reading less. Honestly, I’m much more likely to watch a movie on a plane than I am to read a book. Doesn’t mean I love books less, but I don’t have as much time for them now. Because of the above, bookstores are struggling, so they’re carrying less inventory, which means fewer choices for the consumer. And who knows how long my style will be in style.

  Anyway, writing enhances my life in so many ways that I’ll never give it up, but I’m practical enough to not disregard the stack of bills that arrives every month. If I could find an additional way to generate revenue in some form, I’d feel less anxious about the future.

  Everything listed thus far requires effort and commitment. The only item I have that will require more luck than effort is:

  Have a conversation with an icon.

  Is it shallow to say I want to meet someone I’ve idolized for years? Because I do. But I don’t want to just have a picture taken with them, like I did when I met Alec Baldwin a few years ago. Sure, that was cool, and that snapshot’s definitely on my mantel, but we didn’t really converse or connect.

  There was no spark of recognition or mutual understanding. There was no feeling, even for a second, of being colleagues, even though we were at an event for authors and I’d written more books than he had. He was a movie star and I was some asshole in a cheap dress with an iPhone. Maybe it’s a weird thing to want, but it’s a goal, nonetheless. I have no idea how to pursue it, but I’m putting it out there Secret-style anyway.

  Finally, the last item on my list is simple but necessary:

  Remove this damn tattoo.

  (No explanation required.)

  This list is a jumping-off point and my intention isn’t to check out as soon as I’m done. Rather, I want to begin to undertake a series of challenges in this second chapter of life to keep from stagnating, to keep moving forward.

  I wonder, how will this list change my life in the short term? What about the long term? Will I find Italy so dirty and frustrating that I never want to visit Europe again? Or will I love it so much that I make plans to eventually go all ex-pat? What will pursuing a new line of business bring? How will my self-defense classes shake out? Will I eventually see myself on the news as one of those innocuous old ladies who literally beats the dog shit out of her teenage attacker? Will I become my own Internet meme in my housedress and support stockings, all, “I took that boy to SCHOOL.” Will I love training for a 5K so much that there will be marathons in my future?

  I’m excited to find out, so let’s light this candle.

  Because, really?

  I’m not getting any younger here.

  5.

  She’s the Man

  “Whoa, check out that awesome bike!”

  We’re taking a spin in our own personal midlife crisis–mobile (read: a used convertible) through the lakefront Fort Sheridan neighborhood, which formerly housed officers from the local army base. When the base closed in the 1990s, the Department of Defense sold the land to local developers and now the area’s been reborn by way of attractive housing units. Every house, apartment, and townhome was gutted and refurbished, but developers saved the exteriors, so all the homes are still made of the original yellow brick. This makes for a neighborhood that’s either beautifully cohesive or super-Stepford, based on your point of view.

  (Sidebar: Why is a reference to The Stepford Wives now the benchmark for that which is evil and off? I mean, sure, there are some inherently feminist problems with turning women into man-pleasing robots, but, my God! The landscaping! The lemonade stands! As a relatively new homeowner, I have a profound appreciation for anything that ups neighborhood property values.)

  (Additional sidebar: I’m sorry, Ms. Steinem.)

  We’ve driven by this development a hundred times since moving to the suburbs but never actually explored the area until today. After running our errands earlier, we bought beverages at the drive-through Starbucks across from the entrance. I used to gripe about Fletch’s constant coffee consumption until I finally realized that it’s a small way to make him happy. Also, it’s easier than arguing for twenty minutes on why we don’t need to stop. Sometimes compromise tastes like caramel macchiato.

  We’ve always been interested as to what is behind the iron gates, and, as it’s warm and sunny, this seems like the perfect time to reconnoiter. Convertible season is pathetically abbreviated in Illinois, so we take advantage of it whenever we can.

  By the way, never tell the Trader Joe’s cashier that you “spent the day with the top down” because he will wrongly believe you’re talking about your shirt and not your retractable canvas roof. He’ll assume you’re hitting on him, despite the fact that (a) you’re married to your best friend, (b) you’re tubby, (c) you’re twenty-five years his senior, and (d) you’re vehemently opposed to ever making out with someone who voluntarily wears a Hawaiian shirt. Plus, he’ll notice all the two-buck Chuck and mini peanut butter cups in your cart and give you that bless-your-heart look and you’ll want to smack the pity off of his annoyingly sympathetic young face.

  Speaking of going to Cougar Town, a while ago, Fletch and I were at the dinner table when we saw an ad for some super-explode-y, CGI-filled, possibly alien-invading movie. Now, the only thing I love more than body-swapping flicks are those where action heroes spout a few quips while battling creatures from another planet, à la “I could have been at a barbecue!”

  “Hey,” I said. “Rewind that.” If you aren’t one to watch television during dinner, then please congratulate yourself on not slogging along in the c
ultural morass that is my life. “I believe I’d like to see that film.”

  Fletch rolled his eyes. “Of course you would.” He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully and then added, “I think Channing Tatum might be in the movie,” which caused me to make what can only be described as an unholy noise coupled with a massive intake of breath.

  He shook his head with a mixture of pity and disgust. “I don’t get it—how come you’re allowed to ogle Channing Tatum with impunity?”

  I replied, “Because my interest in him is innocent. I don’t want to marry him. I want to be married to you. I don’t visit Cougar Town, if for no reason other than a twentysomething wouldn’t understand my cultural references. Remember last summer when we were playing Catchphrase with Julia and Finch and the word was ‘champion.’ And I sang, ‘We are the mm-mm-mms, we are the mm-mm-mms . . . of the world!’ and Julia had zero clue because she’s ten years younger? I can totally be friends with that, but I could never marry that.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” he replied.

  “Seriously,” I said, “I don’t even want to make out with Channing Tatum. Pretty much my plans would include gawping and giggling. Maybe I’d put him in a bow tie and shirtless vest and have him serve drinks poolside, but that’s it. I’d keep my hands to myself.”

  Saying nothing in response, Fletch loaded his fork with a large hunk of osso buco and a small piece of red potato.

  I pointed at his plate. “I couldn’t be with Channing because I’m sure he doesn’t touch carbs or red meat. Total deal breaker. You can’t love me for my spaghetti Bolognese if your trainer doesn’t let you near pasta, right? And then, if we were to somehow have a meal together and he were to take a monster bite of something, he’d never get the reference when I’d say, ‘Bart! Sensible bites!’ You know, from the episode when Lisa went vegetarian on The Simpsons.”

  “Probably because he was about twelve when it aired the first time.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  Fletch speared another bite. “Let me ask you this—what would you do if I went all Pavlovian like you do every time you hear his name? What would you think if I was apeshit over—give me a name of some big female star today.”

  “Um, Miley Cyrus?”

  He grimaced. “Ugh, no. How about . . . Scarlett Johansson? What if I carried on like you do? What would happen? Listen, I know what would happen. You’d punch me.”

  I nodded. Sounded pretty likely.

  “And that doesn’t strike you as bullshit? Like a massive double standard?”

  I sneaked the marrowbone off my plate so that Libby could lick it under the table. “It’s totally a double standard.”

  “How is that acceptable?”

  Huh. That really was a puzzler.

  I quietly reflected while I worked it all out; then I snapped my fingers. “Got it! It’s because for every dollar a man makes, a woman typically makes seventy-seven cents. Those twenty-three disparate cents are our justification.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “So what you’re telling me is that because of pay inequality, you’re allowed to ogle Channing Tatum like you’re some Teamster on a construction site?”

  I replied, “Yes. Those twenty-three cents allow us to say whatever we want. That disparity is what I call The Channing Tatum Tax.”

  My statement left him speechless, as he was clearly awed by my feminine logic. As well he should be.

  Anyway, I eventually saw the movie and it was kind of terrible. First, there were no aliens at all, and second, “Get your hands off my Jordans!” isn’t nearly as quotable as “You know what the difference is between you and me? I make this look GOOD.”

  As for today, Fletch and I are on the same page, oohing and aahing at the matchy-matchy residences with their wide porches and curved windows. We idly wonder what life might have been like had we bought a home here instead of a few miles west. We slowly cruise around the neighborhood, admiring the old-growth oaks, with the radio at a respectful volume, speculating about which ranking officers lived in which units. We figure the higher the rank, the closer they’d be to the waterfront.

  As we loop down Whistler Road, I spot an old woman pedaling by on a three-wheeled bicycle. I wave and she nods crisply in return. I admire her shiny rims and slow, steady path. I love how, despite her age, she moves with steely determination, which is when I notice the best part.

  “Check out the basket on that thing!” I say. “I bet she could hold three bags of groceries up there!”

  Suddenly I notice that Fletch has completely changed our own trajectory and we’re no longer headed toward the heart of the development.

  “Are you actually turning around so we don’t see that old gal on the bike?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He nods. “I don’t want you getting ideas.”

  For as long as I’ve yearned for a three-wheeled bicycle, Fletch has loathed them. He was traumatized during his childhood, back when he outgrew his old tricycle and his batshit mother opted to purchase him a bigger trike instead of a regular bike like the other kids, which led to a fight of epic proportions between his parents. Fletch says the old man almost never stuck up for him, but in this one case, he actually did.

  At top volume—as was his way—Daddy Fletcher explained how he did not fight the Commies in WWII and come home to work in a coal mine only to have his only son ride around on a three-wheeler “like a goddamned Frenchman.” His boy would get a proper two-wheeled bike like every other young man in the neighborhood, save for the kid across the street who was always badgering Fletch to play “Dolly Parton” with him.

  (Sidebar: Fletch eventually found his old neighbor on social media. He’s currently living in his grandmother’s basement, making his living as . . . a Dolly Parton impersonator! His page is covered in photos of him in his padded, bewigged gear, and there’s a whole section of shots taken with Dolly herself. Fletch thought this was hilarious until I pointed out that this guy’s living his childhood dream, and isn’t that kind of nice? Fletch had no choice but to agree.)

  Point?

  Three-wheeled bikes are Fletch’s Kryptonite. Throughout the twenty years of our relationship, we’ve had two unbreakable rules: One, I don’t buy a three-wheeled bike until he’s dead, and, two, he doesn’t hide a severed head in my toilet.

  Now, I realize that in a world full of danger, where a single spider bite can kill on contact, where brutal despots annex neighboring countries without a second thought, where tainted lettuce can bring an entire cruise ship to its knees, and where constant vigilance is as necessary as oxygen, the odds of my opening the lid to the toilet, finding a severed head, and dropping dead from shock are fairly low. And yet that remains my single greatest fear, so here we are.

  I’m not sure when I decided that I’d be better off rolling on three wheels, as I grew up tearing around the neighborhood on a regular ten-speed Huffy. (RIP, old banana-seated, Stingray Schwinn that I outgrew before we moved to Indiana.) I had no problem with balance or speed and I loved the freedom my bike afforded me. I lived in a subdivision about ten miles outside of town, surrounded by countryside, so I was always out exploring. To this day, I could probably plot out all the best places to ride in my old town. Head due west to hit the Civil War–era cemetery, surrounded by the most lush, dense willow trees I’ve ever seen, which are surely now even more verdant with thirty extra years of growth. Go south to see the abandoned Girl Scout camp on the creek and relax at one of the many splintered picnic tables that I assume are still there. Travel north and I’d likely still smell the hog farm long before I ever saw it. Even now, the scent of manure and the sound of wheels crunching over gravel give me an odd feeling of comfort.

  The only reason I ever stopped riding is that my juvenile delinquent neighbor decided to play chicken with me and my bike was subsequently ruined. That’s right, Across the Street Kent. I mean you. You plowed right into me because you t
hought it was funny and you bent my front tire in such a way that my bike became inoperable. Despite my insistence you pay for the damages or at the very least apologize, you did neither and I was never allowed to get a new bike after that because I didn’t, and I quote, “take care of the one [I] had.”

  It’s been over thirty years and I’m as angry today—despite possessing a shiny pre-owned convertible—as I was back then. Possibly more so. Across the Street Kent would be wise to avoid me still, if you know what I mean.

  (What I mean is, never mess with the little girl who will eventually develop an entire career due to the depth and breadth of her bitterness.)

  As it turns out, a quick Google search tells me that Kent fixes driveways for a living. As I’m pretty sure that a career pouring tar wasn’t his childhood dream—I vaguely recall his yen to drive in a demolition derby—I feel a level of schadenfreude at this news. Is it wrong that I hope he wallows in collective misery with the bitch who used to torment me on the bus in junior high? Last I heard, she was giving manicures in a shop across from the jail and I bet that he and she . . .

  Ahem.

  It’s possible that holding on to resentments from 1982 is actually keeping me stuck in many ways, in which case, I shall move on.

  Begrudgingly.

  Returning to the topic at hand—there’s something about a three-wheeled bike that thrills me even more than Magic Mike. I didn’t even know these existed until the mid-nineties, but I loved the notion of them long before I ever set eyes on one. Back then, Fletch had graduated from college but he was still living with me at school until he found a professional job in Chicago. In the interim, he worked security at a local Isuzu manufacturer. He’d come home from the job, often complaining about having to ride this “ridiculous three-wheeled death machine” around the massive plant.