Everything About Me Is Fake . . . And I'm Perfect (10 page)

                I worry about my daughter, though. I worry
about body image in a world where J.Lo’s muscle tone is fodder for National
Enquirer stories. I hate it when the tabs do that kind of thing to women; after
all, we all have our off-days, our things we’d rather hide. What does it say to
my daughter when even the hottest of the so-called beautiful things du jour isn’t
perfect enough?

                (Of course, I loved it when the tabs did the
same thing to Jerry Hall back in the 1990s—because she did have some extra flab
in her glutes. The photographer caught her flaunting her ass next to some
tropical beach house Mick bought her. At the time, I guess it didn’t bother me
so Photograph not available for

                electronic edition

                E V E R Y T H I N G A B O U T M E I S F A K
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                much because Savvy was too young to know the
difference between Jerry Hall and Tom & Jerry.)

                Now, though, I worry. “Is J.Lo fat?” Savvy
asked me, her beautiful eyes wide. This was one talk I knew she’d remember.

                “No, honey,” I said, directing her gaze up
to the smile on Jenny-fromthe-Block’s mug. “She looks really happy, doesn’t she?
That’s the only thing that matters.”

                My daughter seemed satisfied, but I still
had to wonder what society wants from women—including little women like Savvy,
who are just coming up in a world that likes to knock us down for sport. Of
course, life isn’t always perfect. How do I deal with my children being able to
pick up either of my books and hear the randy details of their mom’s past? I
have to find some sort of positive way around this. The other day my teenage
son gave the keys to our new house to his friends to use while I took them to
Hawaii for a blowout spring break surprise. Yes, while I was treating the kids
to a week in paradise, seven of Nathan’s male friends decided to party down at
Chez Janice. They thought I’d never figure it out, of course; at my age, could
my brain really be up to speed?

                These kids had no idea who they were dealing
with. When I got home, I found one of their empty vodka bottles in my trash.

                “Nathan!” I yelled. “I want to talk to you.
Now!”

                My son knew there would be consequences. I’ll
admit it, I felt a little bad for him; peer pressure’s a bitch. And I’m sure he
thought I was, too, when I hauled him and his seven good-time guys into my
living room the following day (after I calmed down). “Boys,” I told them, “Here’s
the deal. When you do something bad, you have to give something good back to
the universe.”

                They just looked at me like I’d snapped.
That was just too bad for them.

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                “Next weekend, the eight of you are going to
volunteer at a homeless shelter and help serve food. Where are you going to get
the food, you ask?

                Well, part of it’s going to come from a food
drive you’ll be conducting in the next few days.” I said. “By the way, the
homeless people don’t need vodka, so you can leave that off your shopping list.”

                After some grumbling, the eight party hounds
hauled their little cookies down to the shelter. After spending an entire day
there, Nathan came home, gave me that soft little-boy glance I miss so much,
and said, “You know, Mom, we do have it pretty good.”

                I nearly passed out. It was a perfect
moment.

                26.

               
The Kind of Love That Makes

               
My World Perfect

                Hang on. I saved the best for last: Love.

                Here we go.

                Last night, I lost my wallet. I was frantic:
that little wedge of leather holds half my life between its folds. I was
flipping out so badly I almost swallowed my tongue. Among other things, the
pictures in my wallet were fabulous—driver’s license included. It had taken
three hours at the DMV for me to take that photo. I didn’t care if that
scrawny, prisonrecord-looking kid behind the counter had two hundred people in
line. I made them take about sixty shots until I was satisfied. No one says no
to Janice, babe.

                And now, after all that effort, suddenly it
was lost. I was a shambles. After finishing my freakout, I went back to the pet
store where I’d dropped off my dogs for grooming, and said a silent prayer that
I’d find my wallet. Then I ran into Eddie, a friend of mine from the days (and
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                didn’t spot me—he was talking on his cell
with his psychic; how L.A. is that?—so I grabbed the phone away from him.

                Before I could say a word, the psychic said,
“Hello, honey. I think you need to go back to your car. You’ll find what you’re
looking for between the seats.” Now, this was service. I flew back to the car
like I was running for my life, jumped inside, and pushed the electronic seat
adjuster. As I pushed it back, my wallet practically fell into my hands.
Obviously this was too big an opportunity to pass up. I hauled ass back into
the store. “Eddie, would you hand me your phone again? I’m shellshocking here.”

                Before he could even hand me the cell, I
grabbed it. “Hello, is this still the psychic? Thank God! Now, what about my
relationships? When will I find true love?”

                She said, “For that you will have to look
into yourself.”

                See! What I’ve been preaching all along. Who
needs a palm reader?

                The truth is, when it comes to love, I’m
still walking around with the feelings of a sixteen-year-old girl who’s just
coming into her own hormones. I hope it doesn’t fade, either, because I like
the feeling—and you just can’t fake this kind of stuff. Next year I might write
another book called Fucking Great at 48—and it won’t (necessarily) be about
what’s happening in bed, but what’s in my head and my heart. Of course, when I
spot a guy and I start to fall in love, I think all the typical girl’s
thoughts—thoughts that have everything to do with why I wanted to do this book:
Am I wearing the right thing? How do my tits look in this shirt? Is the
thirteen inches of makeup on my face too much?

                Should I really have spent three and a half
hours in the bathroom this morning to get ready? The hair extensions, the fake
lashes, the concealer, the heels—is it enough?

                Am I perfect enough?

                Then one day I realized: Everything about me
is fake . . . and I’m perfect.
This is my favorite photograph ever
taken—period.

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                I hope you’ll all get there, too, the way I
did—with luck, without all the trouble it took me to get there. Just breathe
and be fabulous. Put out a vibe that says you’re the best, and before you know
it you’ll believe it, feel it, and be it. That’s how I’ve gotten through
life—it ain’t perfect, but it works.

                Treat yourself well. I don’t care who or
what you are in this lifetime, get out of the house on Saturday night. Put on
your trashiest outfit, shortest shirt, hottest fishnet stockings (with seams),
and find the perfect pair of dancing shoes. I buy mine at a place called I Love
Shoes in Beverly Hills. I love the spiked Italian stilettos that you can dance
in without ending up at the chiropractor. But remember that life isn’t just one
big party. A few weeks ago, I went on a camping trip to pump myself up for my
book tour. I’ll never forget it: first thing in the morning the birds were so
loud I was almost gasping. It was so beautiful—like being in Heaven. I awakened
with the sun and took an hourlong walk into the woods, and suddenly I realized
I was at peace with the world—because my head was clear and my ass was hovering
well above my kneecaps. What more could I possibly want from this life?

                People ask me, “Janice, tell me one more
time—how did you get yourself together?”

                My reply is simple: “Who says I’m together?”

                My mantra used to be Whatever will be, will
be. These days I’ve replaced that with something much better: It is what it is
what it is . . . How do I keep it together? I try to stay connected to the
important people in my life, the ones who keep me focused and grounded. I try
to be diligent about my routine maintenance, scrubbing, exfoliating, tweezing,
plucking, and primping—and I do it not just because it’s business, but for
myself. And I work just as hard at taking care of the inside as I do the
outside. When I stare into the mirror, I like the person who looks back at
me—at least most of the time, which seems good enough. I know it’s her
imperfections that make her perfect.

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                When I look into her eyes, she appears to be
about sixteen years old in spirit, but with the body and the mind of someone
who has been put through the wringer. Some people call that maturity. I call it
late blooming. I may be the latest bloomer of all. These days I feel like today’s
Mary Tyler Moore, only happier and sans that stupid fucking beret.

                One thing that keeps me going, I know, is
just pure energy. I’m writing this after getting home from an AA meeting where
I was speaking with a woman who had been sober for twelve hours. Notice I didn’t
say only twelve hours because every one of those hours was a victory that woman
snatched from the bottleneck of defeat. My role there is to be of service and
help the next person, the way I was helped myself. And that’s another thing
that keeps me sane.

                I certainly don’t have all the answers.
Maybe I don’t really have any answers. All I can tell people is that you should
live your life in gratitude for this day, whatever it brings, because that is
perfect enough. My path is one of the spirit (loving life), the mind (AA), the
body (yoga), and the soul (my kids, and what love I can find). I try to make
sure my own side of the fence is clean. I’m not a warrior about it. There are
days when it gets kind of messy, but then I work extra-hard to clean it up. I’ve
gathered enough self-respect to know that I deserve it. Is all that perfect? Hell,
no.

                It is what it is what it is . . .

                Hang on a minute. What? You thought I was
done? Please. So a few months ago, I’m at this lavish Vanity Fair party in
Beverly Hills, celebrating the genius of filmmaker Billy Wilder, who directed
one of my favorite films—Some Like It Hot. Speaking of hot, the crowd was
strictly A-list, and it included Mr. Mick Jagger. Didn’t he used to be some
famous rock star?

                I wasn’t pregnant Janice anymore. I was
size-four, yoga-toned, headon-straight, skin-glowing, hair-flowing Janice
(thanks to three hours in the chair and enough hair care and self-tanning
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                factory running for a year). I was looking
hot, if I do say so myself, in a red, low-cut, va-va-Valentino dress. Eyes, and
D-cup fake breasts, were popping everywhere.

                Once again, Mick snubbed me completely.

                That’s a rock star’s love for you.

                He didn’t even waltz up to say hello. (Maybe
he doesn’t go for exlovers anymore.) In the past, I would have let a stream of
curses fly. Instead, I pivoted on my Blahniks and did something
shocking—especially for someone who’s spent her whole life trying to make
everything around her perfect. I let it fucking go.

                I didn’t get mad. Instead, I just walked up
to someone far more interesting than Mick. Who? Mr. Billy Wilder himself. Soon
we were deep into a conversation about everything in sight: art, photography,
the cinema. Billy and I made love with our minds, and it was beyond perfect. Glancing
at Mick on the way out, I felt not a shred of anger. Who cares anymore? I
thought. For me, this is progress. As I drove away in my top-down Mustang, my
hair being undone by the Santa Anas, I wondered for a moment why I felt so
different that night.

                Duh. Because I’m happy these days.

                I’m a model. I’ve spent a lot of time
putting on a happy face. But I’m not faking it anymore. I know how much effort
it takes to conjure up one of those fabulous fake smiles. Now, when the world’s
first supermodel tosses out her cover-girl grin, she means it. It’s backed up
by knowledge, experience, and guts.