Aren't You Forgetting Someone?

by Kari Lizer

  Two weeks later, Elias gets a job as field director for a cool woman running for a senate seat in Virginia. He packs up his car and leaves the next day to drive across country. As I watch him pull away to go make the world a better place, I realize he’s everything I dreamed he would be. The house and the hummus are once again my own. I hate it.

  Live Like You’re Dying (You Are)

  I’m dying. I realized it last week when the seat of my jeans gave way in the freezer section of the supermarket. I was browsing the frozen meals, deciding between a gluten-free cauliflower crust pizza or family-size Stouffer’s mac and cheese, when I suddenly felt a draft across my lower butt. I poked around the underside of my fifteen-year-old favorite pair of jeans and discovered the seat had virtually disintegrated to the point that no further patchwork or desperate stitching would hold them together. When I got home, I had to break down and order a new pair of designer slim-fit boyfriend-cut button-fly jeans. When the new ones arrived, it occurred to me: if this pair manages to last for another fifteen years, I will be nearly seventy-five years old when this seat disintegrates. Meaning this could very well be the final pair of jeans I will purchase in my lifetime. And when I think about the fact that my time on earth is possibly only as long as the life-span of one pair of overpriced jeans, I fall into a panic that tells me I must hurry up. Hurry up and live because I’m about to die. And with so little time left, I need to make these years count. I need to do things that are worthwhile and life affirming and important.

  And then I sit down on the couch and binge-watch Forensic Files.

  I’m sure this will sound insensitive to people who really do die young, leaving so many things left undone. And here I am, alive and quite possibly with an abundance of time left to go—fifteen years is not nothing, I know. When my sister was dying at forty-one, she was furious about all the amazing things she wanted to do with her life that she was being denied. And if she were here right now, I would say to her, “Like what?” and “Do you have any ideas for me?” There’s got to be something more to these remaining years than work, restorative yoga, Fitbit challenges, elimination diets, and skin cancer checks.

  Maybe I should open a vegetarian restaurant. Except I’m not a vegetarian, and I have Misophonia—meaning I get unreasonably angry when I hear people chew. I could open a farm sanctuary, like Jon Stewart and his wife, Tracey. That’s noble. When I start to look into it, though, I discover it can take years of paperwork to get the permits, and I don’t have that kind of time or attention span.

  Parenting felt worthwhile, but since the kids got jobs, they don’t call as much. Why did I think I’d be happy when they were self-sufficient? It’s made me obsolete. There are no more frantic messages about unjust parking tickets, cell phones dropped in rivers, overdrawn bank accounts. No more questions that only I knew the answers to: What is my social security number? Health insurance carrier? Where do you get stamps? How much do stamps cost? Why do I have a headache? Why does my tooth hurt? How long does it take to drive to New York from Boston? How long does it take for Advil to work? I was Alexa before Alexa. They are handling things on their own now, and I have lost my purpose. I need to find a new one.

  I search the internet for things like “Impressive things to do with yourself after fifty,” “Admirable life goals,” and “What should I do now?”

  I tried looking up what other empty-nest women I admire are doing with themselves these days: Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton, Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Cher… very inspirational, but they’re always out giving speeches and being honored, and I think I’d like to find something noble that I could do from home.

  I talk to my friend Jackie about my plight—but she still has two kids at home and a full-time job, so she’s only half listening.

  I say, “I need something to do. Not just work. I need a purpose.”

  “I thought you wanted a pig.”

  “I’m saying I need a reason to get up in the morning. I don’t have to change the world necessarily. Just a small purpose.”

  Jackie says, “I’ve never heard of small porpoises.”

  “Small purposes.”

  “Why are they small? Do they live with regular-sized porpoises?”

  I know I don’t have any more time to squander. I got a late start in life. While others were studying for the SAT in high school, their brains focused on their educational future, I spent my time watching and rewatching Grease, trying to decide if I was a Sandy or a Rizzo. Then, that first year away from home, while my peers were navigating their new academic environment, I was waiting for auditions, smoking Virginia Slims, drinking Miller Lites, and memorizing all the lyrics to the long version of Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” (definitely a Rizzo).

  When parents ask me to talk to their kids about how to get started as a professional writer, I tell them the truth: fail as an actress, don’t prepare yourself to do anything practical, making yourself unhirable. This will ensure that you have to succeed or die. Also, be willing to be the butt of your own jokes. Somehow, and against all odds, that worked for me. And I was able to raise my kids with a certain amount of security. No one saw that coming, least of all me. And in the process, I transformed from an unreliable ne’er-do-well into a compulsive workaholic, supermom, nonsmoker new person. But now what do I do with her?

  Maybe I should run for office. No. Surely the roommate I had at nineteen would come out of the woodwork and reveal that I stole her sweaters when I moved out (I was a squanderer and sweater stealer). God! Why did I waste so much time? The voice in my head screams, “Hurry! Hurry! Figure it out! Do something!”

  Then I sit down on the couch and binge-watch Dateline.

  But even the soothing sounds of Keith Morrison’s ghoulish narration can’t quiet the voice in my head, whispering fiercely to “Go! Go!” and it has me scuttling to nowhere. I try to escape the anxiety by going to Vermont, sure that the lake and the trees and my kayak and the lack of panic-driven ambition in the people at Hasting’s General Store will soothe me. But when I get there, I feel like someone who has come into the kitchen on a mission but can’t remember why they went in there in the first place.

  It’s so peaceful and beautiful the only big idea that comes to me is this: “I’m going to have my ashes spread here.” So I retrace my steps back to busier, less beautiful Los Angeles, where I can set up lunches and make appointments and possibly consult with a psychic.

  I used to wake up in the morning like a starter’s pistol had gone off. A script due, inbox and voice mail full of nagging emergencies. Running from producing to parenting. Trying to keep my show, The New Adventures of Old Christine—my work-child—alive; or during pilot season, trying to birth a new TV child; then rushing home to my real children, who were waiting for dinner to be cooked or last-minute school supplies to be magically pulled out of my ass because someone forgot to tell me they needed a three-quarter-inch two-ring binder in canary yellow by 7:00 a.m. tomorrow. Not anymore. The kids still haven’t called me back. There are no emergencies. It’s very quiet.

  I’m all caught up on email, which wasn’t hard because the only things in there were a special offer from the Sundance catalog, my Virgo horoscope from Astrology.com, a promo code from my pet food delivery service, the email from the porn site I put in my spam folder every single day only to be greeted by it again the next day, plus 472 requests for money from the Democratic National Committee. I turned in my latest script last week, four days early, because it was all I had to do. I don’t have to multitask anymore, just task.

  So I lie in bed, no alarm set, and orient for a few minutes… the only reason to get up is because the dogs and I have to pee.

  What does one do when they can do whatever they want? I’m free. And I’m paralyzed by it. I’m dying. I’m free. I’m paralyzed.

  My time is my own for the first time in many years, and while worry still waits at the edges of my thoughts (I’m still a mother), the hypervigilant state that I lived in while trying to give m
y kids everything they need while also building my career has relaxed. All three kids are on paths to productive adulthoods. I managed to steer them away from the pitfalls of my own misdirected youth. They are more secure than me in so many ways, which is all any parent can hope for. My career as a TV writer takes less desperate scrambling than it used to. I’m not quite an old-timer, but I might be a seasoned professional.

  I look around at my clean, quiet, and orderly empty nest, french-pressed coffee waiting on the counter, a dozen eggs from my chickens waiting to be my morning omelet, and I realize this is not a tragedy. I can do whatever I please. It’s like being twenty again but with better beer.

  The years up till now have rushed by in a blur. It seems the pace of these next fifteen might slow to a crawl. And even though I have less time, I have more time. And doing nothing, for now, might be my midlife revenge. Maybe when the kids do finally call back, I won’t even answer because I’ll be resting on my laurels. I think I’ve found my Zen.

  The first morning of my “I’ve done enough” lifestyle, I take the dogs for a walk. When we’ve gone a couple of blocks, I see a “Women for Trump” sign has appeared on a neighbor’s lawn. I try to walk past it. Not my business. I’m done. Maybe I’ve done enough. I’m Zen.

  We walk for a couple more blocks, and then I find myself turning back the way we came. Damn it.

  I lead the two big dogs on either side of the sign as if I’ve lost control of them. Then I do a pretty good act (in case there are cameras watching) where I try to untangle the dog’s leashes, only managing to wrap them around the sign. It turns into a fairly impressive physical comedy routine that ends up crushing the sign, dragging it down the street attached to my two dogs, then finally leaving it in a heap in the gutter. I couldn’t help it. An American’s work is never done. I’m nowhere near Zen.

  I get back home, heart pumping with the exhilaration of crime, and there’s a text message from my son. It’s a picture of a rash, and the message says: “What do I do about this?” He needs me. I research the best-rated urgent care in the city where he’s working, text it back to him with the directions and a copy of my medical insurance card. He sends back a thumbs-up and heart emoji. A mother’s work is never done.

  Small porpoises.

  Happy, I sit down on my couch and binge-watch Dr. G: Medical Examiner.

  Acknowledgments

  I have to start with gratitude for Claudette Sutherland and everyone from the Wednesday morning table, because that’s where it all started.

  To Jennifer Kasius and the talented people at Running Press, your enthusiasm and wisdom made this process a joy. Thank you for your support and, most of all, for appreciating the fact that I am, at heart, a chicken lady.

  To Megan Schindele and the eagle eyes at Amnet, thank you for curbing my comma addiction.

  Thank you to my wonderful agents at CAA in New York: Mollie Glick and Anthony Matteo. You said you’d do it, and by god, you did.

  Michael Rosenfeld, thank you for making what’s important to me important to you. I believe that’s the definition of a friend.

  Brett Loncar, Jeff Jacobs, Jacquie Katz, and Michael Katcher, I realize you were hoping for a network sitcom, and instead I handed you scribblings from the inside of my uterus; the fact that you embraced it without missing a beat makes me feel lucky as can be to have you on my side.

  Enormous appreciation to Karen Kim and everyone at Kessler, Schneider & Scheltinga for keeping the lights on.

  Thank you to Bob Getman. You’ve been there for me for so long, I’m starting to count on you.

  Scott Schwartz. Because.

  I have truly amazing women in my life: Jackie, Rosie, Helen, Amy, Katie, Noodle, Jhoni, Elizabeth, Julia, Nancy, Heather, Julie, Mary, Tracy, and Kathleen. Don’t ever leave me. I’m not kidding. Don’t.

  To my mom and dad, for teaching me to laugh inappropriately and often.

  Casey, Lisa, Kady, Toby, Tricia, Wyatt, Poseidon—my family.

  To Toby E.—a very welcome addition.

  Matt, you came into the picture during the tornado. You can officially add storm chaser to your list of credentials. I love you.

  To every animal that’s saved me.

  And to Annabel, Elias, and Dayton, for everything. All the time.

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  * My boobs aren’t always slimy, by the way. It’s from the ultrasound jelly. Usually they’re dry as a bone.