I Regret Nothing Part 13

Well, there's nothing I love more than a compelling narrative. A couple of years ago when his memoir came out, I was all smug and "good for you, sweetie," but at the concert I realized that someone who's written hundreds of songs is as much a writer as he is a singer. He was both charismatic and witty-always a winning combination.

At the end of the night, he held up an early copy of Magnificent Vibrations, his first novel, about a man who finds a book containing G.o.d's cell phone number. I made a mental note to preorder the book because if it was half as engaging as he'd been onstage, I was sure to love it.

I'd gone into the night all judgmental about women stuck thirty years ago, but what's more likely is these true fans had been evolving right along with him.

"We'll have to remember to buy his book," she agrees. "So, roomie, what else is up?"

"You're never going to believe this-I'm having an art show! Because I'm an artist. Remind me to shop for a beret." I grab a spider roll, dipping it in a mixture of soy sauce and wasabi. I'm not great with chopsticks, so I always end up shoving the whole piece in my mouth, instead of trying to take down the roll in bites. I figure I'd rather have a mouthful for a second than have dribbled sauce stains on myself all day.

Joanna's whole face lights up. "You're kidding! You found a place to sell your furniture?"

I nod, needing a second to chew before I can answer. "Yes! Laurie's sister Wendy's an artist and she's had a couple of shows at a gallery in Lake Forest. We were all at dinner and I showed her some shots of my newest pieces. Did you check out the Union Jack dresser I made for my office?"

"Yes, very cool."

"Wendy really liked my stuff, so she told the gallery owners about me. I went in to meet with them and the first thing out of my mouth was that I'm not an artist. I'm just a person who puts paint on furniture. But then I told them about how I salvage and refurbish pieces, and they explained that this dovetails completely into their mission statement. The place is called Re-Invent and it's all about finding new uses for old things. So I'm having an art opening in May. Because I'm an artist."

Joanna b.a.l.l.s her fists in victory. "Congratulations! I'm excited to see what else you've been doing! I loved the pieces we saw in the bas.e.m.e.nt at your Christmas party. What's the gallery like? Are the owners nice?"

My words come out in a rush, because I'm so psyched about the show. "Kind of amazing. Aside from the actual gallery, there's a big retail operation with fun and funky pieces from more than a hundred local artists. One guy does sculptures out of old metal and there's a dinosaur made from bicycle chains. Fletch wants it, but where do we put a bicycle-chain dinosaur?"

"The yard?"

"Wouldn't it rust?"

"Good point."

While I talk, Joanna munches a smoked salmon roll. "Get this, the owners are a couple of women in their twenties. They both love art and studied it in college, so they decided to make a go at owning a gallery. They've each worked, like, three jobs apiece to get the place up and running, but now it's a viable business. Can you imagine being in your early twenties, owning a business, and meeting payroll? Wait, I'm sure you actually could, but I was still going to fraternity parties at that age. How could I have managed a business when I couldn't even manage to find my bra? Or could you imagine us partnering in a business back then?"

Joanna peels open a piece of edamame and plucks out the tender green peas. "Ha! I guarantee if we had, we wouldn't be having lunch together right now. Because I'd be dead and you'd be in jail."

I point out, "Unless the judge were sympathetic to people who snap when someone chews that much ice and keeps dropping the d.a.m.n answering machine." We eventually had to tie our answering machine to the coffee table hostage-style after she knocked it onto the floor for the millionth time.

"If you'd gone to prison, then you could have written Orange Is the New Black."

I spoon a glob of wasabi into my dish of soy sauce and mix the ingredients together. I like my sushi spicy enough to invoke tears. "Right? Every time someone buys Bitter now, I wonder if they're reading it, all, 'When does she become a lesbian and go to jail?'"

We both sample pieces of today's special roll-a concoction made of white tuna, cream cheese, and raspberry sauce. What initially sounded odd is actually fairly spectacular. With our mouths full, we both point at the plate. I nod and Joanna gives a thumbs-up.

"So is the gallery show part of your bucket list?"

I take a sip of my tea to stop the wasabi-based fire that's raging in my mouth and sinuses. "I wanted to start a business, so this totally counts." I amend my statement. "If people buy anything, that is. Otherwise, I'm still just a hobbyist. Oh, speaking of my list, I've got to head back home by one today. I have my first session with the nutritionist because developing healthier habits is on the list, too."

"Wait a minute; how are you seeing a nutritionist when you have a registered dietician right here in front of you? Plus, I'm free."

I look her directly in her eyes. "Do you really want to be the person who tries to come between me and my macaroni and cheese?"

She blanches. "I do not."

"I think over the last twenty-nine years of friendship, we've figured out our boundaries." Joanna, Julia, and I are going to the beach in September, after their kids go back to school. We could save two hundred dollars apiece if we bunked together, but we figure our friendship is worth more than that, so we'll each have our own rooms again.

Joanna s.n.a.t.c.hes a raspberry off the plate of the day's special. "If you're seeing someone for dietetic counseling, then should we skip the mochi today?"

I put down my chopsticks. "Absolutely not. We're Team b.u.t.ter and this may be the last time I'm allowed to have dessert."

My session with the nutritionist isn't at all what I expected. I thought Mich.e.l.le would provide a rigid eating plan, cutting out all processed flour and dairy and refined sugar, and I'd diligently follow it until I couldn't take it anymore, backflipping into a vat of b.u.t.tercream frosting.

Instead, she urges me to eat whatever I want, with the stipulation that I follow three simple rules.

First, I need to mindfully eat. Whatever I choose-and it can be literally anything my heart and palate desires-I need to pay attention to what I'm eating. I have to savor each bite. If I'm having, say, Port Salut cheese on a toasted crostini, I must be conscious of the interplay between the creaminess of the cheese and the tang of the sea salt and rosemary seasoning on the bread. I should note how the bite feels in my mouth. I should enjoy and appreciate every bite of every meal.

The second rule is to note my appet.i.te cues, and quit once I'm satisfied. We discuss a hunger chart, where One is absolutely ravenous and Ten is beyond stuffed, ready to pa.s.s out in a food coma. As I learn about these cues, I can think of so many times I've proceeded past the point of satisfaction to uncomfortably full.

I learn that by taking a step back and really noticing my bad habits, it's easier to make changes. I realize that I often consume too much at dinner because Fletch is the world's slowest eater. (Seriously. He could win a compet.i.tion.) He literally takes forty-five minutes to finish what's on his plate. Most nights, I'd find myself taking extra just to keep him company while he methodically chewed every bite nine million times. But now that I'm paying attention, I'm better prepared to stop once I've reached Seven or Eight on the scale. When I get to that point, I immediately put my plate in the dishwasher and I fix a decaf cappuccino. That way, I still have the enjoyment of sitting at the dinner table without feeling too stuffed to actually head down to the bas.e.m.e.nt and work on furniture for my upcoming show.

Mich.e.l.le's third rule is to completely eliminate any food-based guilt. She says the guilt is useless and just makes us miserable. The more we look at food as fuel and the more we take emotions out of eating, the more likely we are to moderate ourselves. I guarantee this is true and all I have to do is look at the times I tried the Atkins Diet. I remember once watching a kid eat a waffle and it was all I could do not to rip it out of his toddler fingers and run away with it. Every time I sit down to eat, I'm to tell myself, "I can have whatever I want."

Mich.e.l.le bills herself as The Fat Nutritionist, as her mission isn't about making her clients skinny. Rather, her goal is to help people normalize their relationships with food.

She makes a lot of sense.

(Sidebar: She's Canadian and she promises me that the folks on Love It or List It aren't representative of her fellow countrymen. She also mentioned that maybe I'd be more mindful about my eating if I weren't shouting at the ridiculous home owners on television while having dinner.) A few weeks into working with Mich.e.l.le, I have to take an overnight trip down to Purdue because I'm speaking to a couple of cla.s.ses. Along the way, I stop at McDonald's for a double Filet-O-Fish meal. For the first time, I notice that the drive-through has calorie counts posted and I'm shocked at how calorically dense the sandwich is. (I blame the tartar sauce.) But instead of feeling remorseful and overindulgent while I have my lunch, I mindfully eat the sandwich from Schererville all the way to Morocco. I finish when I feel satisfied and, because I've eaten the sandwich so methodically, for the first time in recorded history, I don't finish my fries. And because I'm satisfied, I don't stop later for a Dairy Queen b.u.t.terscotch-dipped cone.

Granted, I won't ever be thin eating this way, but I suspect I could eventually be less fat.

It's a start.

I'm shocked at how the student body's changed since I graduated. When did kids become so somber and serious? I have a number of events throughout the day, from coffees to lunch to receptions, and I'm struck by everyone's intensity. My contacts in the Liberal Arts department confirm my suspicions that the good-time-party-uselessness of the eighties and early nineties has morphed into an ultracompet.i.tive pressure cooker and that no one's allowing themselves any downtime. They're all driving themselves too hard.

(Sidebar: I also suspect that there's no way I'd get into Purdue if I were to apply now, but I don't mention this.) I had a speech prepared, but I decided to freestyle instead because I'd written it based on wrong a.s.sumptions. My message to the students is that they're doing a great job at academics, but that they also need to cut themselves a break.

I explained how the most important thing I learned in college was to navigate the interpersonal aspect. I instructed them to, at least once a day, step away from a screen and sit down across from a friend to engage in conversation. Have fun. I landed my first professional job not because I was an academic trailblazer (clearly), but because I knew a ton of people from hanging out in the bars and one of these friends introduced me to her mom, who helped me get an interview. I took it from there, but if it hadn't been for how social I was, I'd have never had the chance. I explained to these students that they don't want to hit their forties and realize they've never cut loose or been irreverent.

In a world where every moment of these kids' lives has been orchestrated and micromanaged from the minute they could be taken from soccer practice to violin lessons to dance cla.s.s to tutoring, they looked at me like I'd just revealed the Holy Grail. I came home feeling like I'd accomplished something important. I'm not sure what, exactly, but I imagine it was bucket listworthy.

Although maybe the advice I gave them wasn't different from what Mich.e.l.le's been telling me about finally, mindfully, giving myself a d.a.m.n break.

I've lost five pounds in the six weeks that I've been working with Mich.e.l.le. This is significant because I haven't yet actively tried to lose weight, as I plan to focus more on fitness over the summer. I've found that the more I allow myself to have what I want, the less I'm liable to take.

This spring has been hectic, as I've been hustling to complete my furniture collection. A week before my show, the paperback version of Tao of Martha comes out and I have to go to New York to attend some events.

I've just boarded the plane home. I'm all strapped into my seat and trying to figure out what movie I'd like to watch on my iPad (maybe Wolf of Wall Street since I'm in a New York state of mind) when I see a familiar face in the aisle.

Holy c.r.a.p.

Rick Springfield's on this flight.

He's seated one row back and one seat over from me and I crack up every time a woman over the age of thirty-five boards the plane, spots Rick, and tries desperately not to lose her s.h.i.t. He's pretty nonchalant about the whole thing, as he's been causing this reaction for more than thirty years.

That's when I realize-this is it!

This is my chance to meet an icon!

I immediately download his book (having previously forgotten) so when I speak with him, I won't be lying when I say I bought it. I start working myself into a frenzy over the opportunity, but then I realize that's a mistake. I decide I'm not going to waste my time planning what to say when we're inevitably standing next to each other waiting to disembark. I don't want to sound phony and rehea.r.s.ed. I hope to have a genuine, albeit brief chat while the ground crew attaches the gangway. I can't orchestrate a moment-I need to just let it happen.

To take my mind off of the general OMG-ery of the circ.u.mstances, I begin to watch my movie and . . . I quickly discover exactly how much gratuitous nudity The Wolf of Wall Street contains. There's a lot. So much, in fact.

Full frontal. Back frontal. From underneath frontal.

Perhaps Mr. Springfield and I will discuss my penchant for watching p.o.r.n on a crowded airplane, as he has a bird's-eye view of my screen.

Nudity aside, the movie's kind of great and I spend the rest of the flight in a blind fury over Leo's never winning an Oscar. Good Lord, Academy, what does that poor man need to do to convince you he's worthy of a win? He was Gatsby, okay? He was Gatsby. And he's absolutely been Jordan Belfort, Howard Hughes, and Frank Abagnale, Jr. to boot. What of Romeo and of Jim Carroll and of J. Edgar Hoover? Why do you discount him so? Do you not want him to draw you like one of his French women, Academy members? Because at this point, y'all don't deserve it. I hope this kid somehow finds comfort in his millions and his supermodel girlfriends, because this s.h.i.t is not right.

Our flight goes quickly, and before I know it, I'm standing next to Rick in the aisle. I smile at him, he smiles at me, and we have a quick chat about his new book, which was released on the same day as the Tao paperback. We speak briefly about publishing and writing and book tours and at no point do I come across as a screaming, seventeen-shirt-wearing fangirl. Instead, we're two peers ever so briefly discussing that which we have in common.

We have only a moment, but it's the right moment.

I don't ask him to pose for a selfie with me, because I want to act like I've been here before. I know the adage is "pictures or it didn't happen" but I'll know it happened.

Because I have the checkmark on my bucket list to prove it.

People not only attend my furniture show, but in the first two weeks, they buy up more than half my inventory. While I'm not going to retire early due to my sales, I've definitely recouped all initial investments and already turned a small profit. I'm not sure I have the means or wherewithal to become a Design Mogul, but I've definitely started something here. There's a photo floating around the Internet of the Beatles performing in front of eighteen people, with the caption that all artists have to start someplace.

This is my someplace.

Overall, I feel like I'm emerging from a long, bitter winter and I'm not sure if that's literal or figurative. I can't put my finger on how any one specific change has had an impact, but I feel like my whole trajectory is shifting and that I might finally be pointed in the right direction.

Which, right now, looks like Italy.

PARCHI E RICREAZIONE.

I leave for Italy today.

By myself, instead of my original idea to travel with my Italian cla.s.s.

And I'm so nervous that I may throw up.

I can't believe I'm doing this. Why did I consider this trip to be a good idea? I'm not someone who goes places just for fun. I was right not to have had wanderl.u.s.t for so long. In fact, I'm all about the staycation. I enjoy being in my house to the point that I totally empathize with people who become agoraphobic. Like, I could see how it happens. Between pizza delivery, Peapod grocery service, and Amazon Prime, I find very few reasons to leave the premises and I'm fine with that! More than fine, even.

Content. Happy. Possibly even euphoric.

Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to say yes, only to have my plans fall through at the last minute and I can take off my regular-people clothes and redon my paint-splattered yoga pants. Dorothy Gale was onto something when she said that there's no place like home. Granted, I'm a nursery of racc.o.o.ns shy of going Grey Gardens myself, but, still, I feel like Big and Little Edie Beale were onto something.

(Sidebar: Although a "nursery" of racc.o.o.ns is the proper term for a group or pack, a "gaze" of racc.o.o.ns is also an acceptable expression. Look at us, learning things together!) What the h.e.l.l am I doing, boarding a plane that will take me five thousand miles away from everyone and everything I ever loved? What kind of Ambien-induced haze was I in that I considered foreign travel a good idea for a bucket list item? I'd like a bucket right now . . . so I can vomit into it.

Unlike so many others my age, I wasn't accustomed to traveling anywhere with Fletch, save for our recent trip to Florida and a couple of long weekends, because we were dead broke for most of the 2000s. When we were busy cobbling together mini-pizzas out of stale hamburger buns and canned parmesan cheese in an apartment where the lights had been cut off, jaunts across the pond weren't exactly at the top of our agenda.

Once we got our financial s.h.i.t together, I suppose we didn't travel because trip planning seemed like such an enormous undertaking and I am, at my core, not always motivated to put forth the effort. Case in point? I used to suggest we keep a bucket in our old town house pantry to compensate for not having a bathroom on the first floor. For some reason, this bothered His Royal Highness very much, while I maintain it totally could have worked. Plus, we hated our neighbors, so sloshing the bucket on their patios could have been a rather elegant solution, you know?

(Sidebar: Fletch insists this is why we can't have nice things.) Interestingly, planning this trip has been an undertaking, but I've actually relished the process. First of all, I've loved learning the language over the past year. The prospect of Italian travel as my end goal made the experience all the more meaningful. I paid attention to the language's nuances not because the difference between the formal and casual way to say "excuse me" would be on a test, but because I'm going to say this phrase to real people on Italian streets and I want to get it right.

Plus, I've had such fun poring over the Fodor's and Rick Steves guidebooks and running Google searches on stuff like "Ten Can't Miss Italian Destinations" and "A Beginner's Guide to Italy" and "Just Accept the Fact that You're Going to Eat Your Face Off, So Pack Elastic Waist Pants."

Actually, until now, I've been super-psyched for this trip ever since I booked it that miserably snowy day in winter. I'd been vacillating about specifically where to head because there's so much I want to see in Italy. Until I started my language cla.s.s, I had no clue how diverse the different regions of Italy are. I a.s.sumed the country was one h.o.m.ogenous ent.i.ty and figured anywhere I'd land would be representative. But that's like going to Fort Lauderdale and a.s.suming the area will give you a taste of life in Seattle or Omaha or Dallas, when, really, the only commonality is our language and shared contempt for Katherine Heigl.

Although I desperately want to experience Venice and I'd love to trace my ancestral roots in Sicily (and hit the beach in Cinque Terre, shop in Milan, tour wineries in Tuscany, etc.), I decided to visit Rome first. I could fly there directly, so there'd be no chance of me causing an international incident in Berlin when I couldn't figure out how to change planes, plus I wouldn't run out of sights to see in a week. I found a reasonable air and land package, and before I could talk myself out of it, I made the nonrefundable purchase and then danced around my office for the next twenty minutes, so overcome with joy that I couldn't even sit down.

I originally planned to visit solo, as a character-building exercise, but shortly after I booked my trip, I realized that everything is more fun with Fletch. If I had him join me at the halfway point, I could still have my alone-in-a-foreign-country bucket list experience, before engaging in more couple-focused activities. Because wasn't there something intrinsically off about going to the most romantic country on Earth without the person I love?

Plus, I figured if we went to Rome together, Fletch and I could have our picture taken in front of the Colosseum, which means I'd finally have the kind of photo that all my peers took twenty years ago on their honeymoon. Everyone I know has awesome shots of themselves smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower or Buckingham Palace or holding hands on a Balinese beach. When we got married, Fletch and I had two days together in Vegas after the ceremony and we didn't take a single picture, largely because everyone in our hotel was there for the Adult Film Awards and I really just wanted to forget the whole thing.

But I've yearned for my Kodak moment, too, d.a.m.n it, enough to make have a photo taken with Fletch somewhere recognizable a bucket list item. So, I checked airfares and then I went downstairs to discuss the option with Fletch.

"Hey, how do you feel about coming with me to Rome for at least part of the time?" I asked.

Fletch looked up from his spot at the table where he was sketching out a fix for a broken dresser. Fletch accompanies me now when I go junking and his advice on what can and can't be repaired has been invaluable. This particular dresser had a wonky drawer, so he was trying to determine the best course of action. "Neutral?" he replied.

"What do you mean neutral? How is neutral an option?"

He tucked his pencil behind his ear while we talked. "I mean, in theory, it could be interesting. But if I could go anywhere, I'd pick Hawaii. I'd like to see the Schofield Barracks again."

"Are you kidding me?" I asked. "Given the opportunity, you'd rather see the place you were stationed in the army than one of the Seven Wonders of the World?"

"Yes."

"No."

Calmly, he replied, "Yes, and how is this an argument? You asked me my opinion and I offered it. I'd go to Hawaii."

What he failed to grasp was that this wasn't the answer I wanted.

"You'd prefer to visit the place you once did a whole bunch of push-ups and went thirty days without a shower rather than witness where the ancient Romans built aqueducts to bring water to a million citizens?"

Fletch rolled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt, which he wore layered over a thermal shirt over a T-shirt topping an undershirt because the house was still frigid at that point. Being so cold in my office was one of the reasons I picked Rome-all the guidebooks said it was sweltering in June and I longed to feel warm again.

Fletch explained, "We didn't shower when we were in the mountains doing a month of jungle ops. On base I showered every day. Sometimes twice if we were going out in Waikiki."

"Congratulations, Corporal Clean."

He returned his focus to his drawing, taking his pencil and tapping the diagram. "Hey, how do you feel if I were to replace the rotten drawer parts entirely? Just toss 'em because they're gross. I don't have the tools to do proper dovetail, but I can craft a decent routed lock joint with that leftover maple."