I'm Not Gonna Lie (15 page)

“Sounds great,” I lied.

“We'll have a nice quiet dinner and then snuggle and watch
Beverly Hills 90210
and
Melrose Place,
” my wife said.

“I love that idea,” I lied again.

Back then, before I was fifty, I lied all the time. It was much easier. Way less hassle. Why tell her that the last thing I wanted to do was watch
Beverly Hills 90210
and
Melrose Place
? I didn't want to waste an evening doing something meaningless. I wanted to do something productive, like polish my golf tees.

And why admit that I didn't know the first thing about barbecuing? What would've been the point?

I had to start from scratch. We didn't own any cookbooks, and I had never seen a cooking show. Nobody had. This was 1993, at least ten years before the Food Network started. Nobody could imagine that chefs showing you how to cook would become hot TV shows. I never would've thought that somebody could actually be a “celebrity chef.” That would have been an oxymoron, like “reality TV actor” or “moderate Republican.”

I racked my brain for a clue on how to barbecue. We didn't do much grilling or barbecuing in my neighborhood, but I remembered a dish I used to love at Gladstones on the beach that they cooked over an open fire.

“Steaks aren't enough,” I said to my wife. “We need a side dish. I know what I'm gonna do. Be right back.”

I ran out to the market and got us some shrimp. I came home, fired up the grill, put on a couple of thick steaks, and then dumped the shrimp into a pouch I made out of aluminum foil, just like I'd seen at Gladstones. I seasoned the shrimp with salt, pepper, and a dash of chili flakes, dropped in an entire stick of butter, nudged the steaks over to make room, put the aluminum pouch on the grill, and turned up the heat.

Zzzzp
.

Oh, man, those shrimp sizzled.

My mouth watered as I stood over the grill and poked the steak and shrimp with my metal spatula and tongs. I thought, “Wow, I have a talent for barbecuing. It's a gift.”

“Smells great,” my wife said.

“I know,” I said. “But one side dish isn't enough.”

I grabbed a fresh loaf of sourdough bread, sliced up the whole thing, buttered every slice, and lightly grilled each one.

As we settled in to watch
Beverly Hills 90210,
I plated our dinners—steak, shrimp grilled in butter, grilled buttered bread, and several beers.

Delicious.

We ate this way pretty much every night.

When I weighed myself at the end of that first year of marriage, I was shocked that I'd gained forty pounds.

I thought I'd gained at least sixty. I felt relieved, for about two seconds. Then I felt fat. Bloated. Enormous. And disgusted that I'd let myself balloon up like this.

I stood on the scale staring as my weight settled into that plus-forty column. I got off the scale and stepped back on to be sure. Yes. Still plus forty.

My wife came up behind me and looked over my shoulder. “We have to lose weight,” she said.

“We?”

“Well, you.”

I don't know why, but after a year of marriage, I wanted a little less “we” and a little more “me.”

Actually, I wanted less of “me,” too. I wanted to get back into shape.

Of course, I saw this coming. I knew I was gaining weight because my pants didn't fit.

For me, not being able to fit into my favorite jeans was a huge wake-up call. That and stepping onto the scale and then looking into the mirror and seeing this fat Mexican guy. All the proof I needed. I'd gained a ton of weight and I knew it.

I'm amazed that some dudes can't see themselves and how much weight they've gained. It should be obvious. If you look in the mirror and see your stomach bulging out of your shirt, the flab flopping over your pants, hanging out there, jiggling like a giant tub of Jell-O, doesn't it set off, like, a million warning bells? It has to register. You have to say to yourself, “Whoa, I am putting on weight. Look at that. I'm borderline
fat
.”

You can't deny it. It's right in front of you. Literally.

Listen, I worry about my weight every day, especially since I turned fifty. I take any weight gain seriously.

In fact, I have my own way of gauging my weight before I even look in the mirror or step on the scale.

I call it the Belly Button Test.

I take this test the moment I wake up.

First, I take the setup to the test. All I do is lie on my side and rub my stomach. If my stomach feels bigger than I remember from the night before, I panic. Most of the time, I'm okay. I rub my gut and I say, “All right, that feels good. I'm okay.”

Now, if you can't get over onto your side, go ahead and panic. You already failed the test, because, seriously, you're already way too fat to even take the too-fat test.

But, okay, let's say I'm not too freaked out about my stomach. Then I do the Belly Button Test.

Here's what I do.

Very simple.

I push my belly button in and see how deep it goes.

That's my barometer. It works all the time.

It's the same idea as those boats that have a stick in the back (called a Power-Pole or a spike) that's used to determine the depth of the water. As the boat approaches the dock, you can see the most recent waterline on the stick. If the stick's soaked all the way to the top, you know that the boat's been safe, that it hasn't gotten too close to shore. You do not want your boat to go all the way in. The stick is your warning. If the boat stick has no waterline, that means you've literally hit bottom. You do not want to hit bottom. That's trouble. That means your boat is about to crash.

My belly button is my stick.

Only I do it in reverse.

How far I push it in tells me how fat I am.

If I push in my belly button and my hand keeps going, disappearing into my flesh all the way up to my wrist, that's a warning sign. That signifies that I've put on way too much weight. That indicates that I'm a whale.

The Belly Button Test is very scientific.

Because it's real.

You have to keep it real when it comes to your weight, because you will lie to yourself. Your mind will play tricks on you.

I always lied to myself when I shopped for pants. I shopped for pants a lot, because I had to. I would go up and down constantly. I went in and out of more weight classes than Oprah.

When you fluctuate like that, it's not just the physical act of gaining weight that gets to you. It's the psychological part of it that really does you in. It's amazing how deeply my weight is tied to my emotions. When I lost weight, I'd be thrilled. But if I got on the scale and I'd gained?

I felt devastated, depressed, worthless, and like I had all this hard work ahead of me. It was demoralizing.

So, the easiest way to deal with it was to lie.

Especially when I would shop for pants.

Before I even hit the men's department, I was prepared. I carried a number in my head, a number I would say when the salesperson asked, “Would you like to try on some pants? Shall I get you a fitting room?”

“Please.”

“And what is your size?”

“Thirty-four.”

I said this with a straight face.

“Thirty-
four
?”

“Yes.”

“And what about the other leg?”

That's what I expected him to say.

But all he did was put his hand on his waist and tilt his head and stare me down.

I stared right back. I didn't flinch.

Finally I caved.

“You know what? I just remembered. I left my sunglasses in the car. I'll be right back.”

I didn't come back.

Until I lost the weight.

A few months after I turned fifty, I went shopping for pants in a well-known department store. I'd been experiencing some violent weight fluctuation, and again I put that wishful number in my head: thirty-four.

But this time, the salesclerk who approached me was a young, extremely attractive woman.

“I'm Brianna,” she said in a throaty voice. She smiled. Her eyes were gray-green, smoky, and sexy. I could see myself drowning in them. “May I help you?” she purred.

“I need some jeans,” I said.

Brianna looked me up and down. She undressed me with her eyes. “I know what would look really good on you,” she said.

I followed her to a rack of jeans in the back corner of the men's department. She flicked through a bunch of jeans and stopped at a particular style and cut. “Try these on,” Brianna said. “These are hot.”

The moment she opened her mouth and the word “hot” danced out on the tip of her delicious-looking tongue, my mouth got dry as Bakersfield. I took a step and started to lose my balance. I felt light-headed. I thought I was going to fall over.

And then, suddenly, my mind left my body.

I was no longer in the men's department of that store.

Brianna and I were together, a happy couple, walking hand in hand. We were sitting across from each other in a restaurant, having brunch, sipping mimosas. We entwined our arms, clinked glasses, sipped, and laughed.

Then we were driving up the coast in my convertible, the waves crashing below us, her head thrown back, her hair blowing in the wind.

Then we were slow-dancing on the beach to soft violin music and the crackle of a bonfire, the shadows of the flames licking our backs.

And then we were lying in bed entangled in satin sheets, a circle of lit candles and incense burning all around us. Suddenly she turned her naked body toward mine, opened her mouth to kiss me, and said—

“What size is your waist?”

“Huh?”

I blinked and found myself standing in the men's department again, across from Brianna. She held two pairs of jeans draped across her arms. “The jeans,” she said.

“Yes?”

“What size?”

“Thirty-four,” I squeaked.

She coughed. She cleared her throat. “That's what I thought,” she said.

She stuck her hand into some more jeans hanging from the rack, pulled out another pair, and placed that on top of the other two. “Would you like to try these on?”

“I would, yes, definitely, absolutely.”

“Right this way.”

I followed her into the dressing room area. She found a vacant room, pushed the saloon door open, and put my jeans on the bench against the far wall.

“Let me know how these fit,” she said, and winked.

“I will, thanks,” I said.

She winked again, left the dressing room, and closed the door behind her.

“Thirty-four,” I said softly, as I pulled off my old jeans and grabbed one of the jeans from the bench. “Come on, thirty-
four.
”

The second I pulled the jeans past my knees I knew they were never gonna fit. I pulled harder. “Fit, you hot jeans,” I said.
“Fit.”

I sucked in my gut as far as I could and yanked the button toward the buttonhole. “You can do it. Come on!”

I sucked my gut in even more and pulled both sides of the jeans with all my might. I gritted my teeth. I puffed out my cheeks. I inhaled and exhaled and grunted like I was a weight lifter.

I couldn't get the jeans on. But I refused to give up. “You are gonna do this,” I said.

I swept the other jeans off the bench and lay down on it. I drew in my stomach and brought the button toward the buttonhole. I woofed. I groaned. I moaned. The button sneaked closer to the buttonhole. Closer. Closer.
I'm gonna do this.
Two inches away. An inch and a half. An inch—

I lost my grip. The waist of the pants flew out of my hands. “Son of a
bitch
!”

“Are you all right in there?”

Brianna.

I sat up on the bench. “Yes! I'm fine. I love these jeans so much, I lost control. ‘Son of a bitch, are these jeans hot!' That's what I said.”

“I told you,” her voice sang over the saloon door of the dressing room.

“Yes, you did. You were right,” I said. “I'm gonna try on another pair.”

“Great. I'll be right out here.”

I edged back down on the bench and wriggled out of the jeans. I picked up another pair. “What am I gonna do?” I said. “These are never gonna fit.”

I sighed, and then something on the label caught my eye.

A number.

Thirty-six.

“Nice,” I said.

Brianna had slipped me a thirty-six when I wasn't looking. She didn't believe I could fit into a thirty-four. She knew that was the number I had in my head, the number I came in with, my wish number. And then it hit me.

Hot, sexy Brianna with the smoky eyes really liked me.

It all came rushing back, and there I was in that slow-motion romantic-comedy montage that usually stars Jennifer Lopez and some hot guy in his twenties. But instead of J-Lo it was me and Brianna. Brunch. Mimosas. Driving up the coast. Slow-dancing on the bench. Satin sheets and incense.

Trash that thirty-four.

Give me that thirty-six and let's get them on and get
it
on.

I lay back down on the bench and wriggled the thirty-sixes up my legs, past my knees, up to my waist, lifted my butt, and—

They didn't fit.

The stupid jeans did not fit.

“No,” I said.

I inhaled and pulled the waist of the jeans up, with everything I had.

The thirty-sixes did not
fit.

“No,” I repeated. “No!
Noooo!
”

I started to cry.

I was too fat to fit into the thirty-sixes.

What was I supposed to do now, ask Brianna for a
thirty-eight
?

“How are those?”

Brianna again.

But there was something about her voice now.

She sounded different. She'd gone all cold and businesslike. She no longer sounded like my sexy soul mate. She sounded like a salesclerk trying to sell me a pair of pants.