I'm Not Gonna Lie Read online

  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 BUTTON- HOLE. “YOU CAN DO IT. COME ON!”

  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.

  I sniffed. “They’re, you know, good, real good, little snug—”

  “Snug?”

  It was over.

  What was I supposed to say?

  “Yes, Brianna, those thirty-sixes are too tight. Bring me a forty, will you? And throw in a forty-two for insurance, too, will you?”

  That’s not going to work.

  How’s this?

  “Hey, Brianna, you know what? I’m gonna forget pants for today. They’re too tight. I’m just gonna starve myself and use laxatives every hour until I drop the weight. I’ll be back in three weeks. I will fit into those thirty-fours and you and I will be tooling up the coast.”

  “Are you okay in there?”

  She was just outside the dressing room door, but she sounded a million miles away.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Sounds like you’re crying.”

  “Yeah, yeah, no, I love these pants so much. I get very emotional when I try on a wonderful pair of jeans. I get overcome. But you know what? I remembered I left my sunglasses in the car and I’m just gonna run down to the garage—”

  “I can ring these up for you so when you get back—”

  “That’s okay, no, thanks, but I’ll be right back. I’ll come right back.”

  “Whatever.”

  I he
ard her high heels clacking out of the dressing room area and out of my life.

  “Yeah, whatever,” I said.

  I stood up, pulled on my old pair of jeans, and looked at myself in the mirror.

  Which was when that day got even worse.

  Looking in the mirror I saw It.

  The one thing I’d been dreading I’d see when I turned fifty. I knew it was a matter of time.

  “No,” I said. “It can’t be. Not here. Not now.”

  But there it was, plain as day, glaring at me from the back of my hand.

  A liver spot.

  My first one.

  The little brown dot just showed up. Just like that.

  I suppose I was glad that it appeared on my hand and not on my forehead or on my nose.

  I had a plan for this, too.

  Before I left the house, I would put some M&M’s on the back of my hand and let them melt. Then if somebody saw my liver spot and said, “Hey, whoa, what is that? Is that a . . . liver spot?”

  “No, man, that’s just some chocolate.” And I’d start licking it off.

  No way I was accepting a liver spot.

  I jammed my hand into my pocket, walked out of the dressing room, and got the hell out of that department store.

  After that humiliating afternoon in the men’s department, I went to work. I cut back on my calorie intake and started to eat a lot of salads. I also started walking the stairs inside my house. I knew it wasn’t enough. I had to do more. But what?

  One afternoon I got a call from RJ. “I’m running a marathon,” he said.

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m running a marathon. Twenty-six miles, consecutively, all at once.”

  “I know what it is. And I heard you the first time. I just wanted to hear you say it again, because it sounds so funny.”

  “That’s not the funny part. Here’s the funny part. You’re gonna run it with me.”

  “You’re right. That is funny. That’s hilarious. I don’t run. I hate to run; you know that.”

  “You have to.”

  “Really? And why is that?”

  “Because if I can do it, you can do it.”

  “That’s not a good reason, RJ. That’s a terrible reason.”

  “How’s this? You got heavy.”

  He had me there.

  I really didn’t want to run—I do hate running—but I thought that maybe in this case it might be worth it. And since I’d crossed off everything else on that “things to do when you turn fifty” bucket list, I thought maybe I should try at least one thing.

  “You know what? I’m gonna do it.”

  “All right! I’m holding you to it. We begin training tomorrow.”

  “Training?”

  “Yes. This is serious. You won’t regret this.”

  “I regret it already.”

  I went to the Nike store that afternoon and decked myself out with some cool running clothes. As long as I was gonna run outside, where people could see me, I had to make sure I looked good. Because you never know. Somebody might see me and get interested in something more physical and fun than running.

  I bought some cushy, expensive cross-trainers, some very hip T-shirts, a pack of sweatbands, knee pads, and some salve to rub on my nipples in case they chafed. Hey, that’s what I heard. You run too hard in the heat, your nipples get sore, crack, and chafe. I couldn’t imagine anything much worse than a couple of chafed nipples. I wanted to avoid that. Not taking any chances. I also took a peek around the store and behind the counter to see if they sold dick-chafing cream. I figured if your nipples chafe, your dick might, too.

  I also bought several pairs of flashy running shorts. The great thing about these was the elastic waistband. After my horrifying jeans-buying experience, I loved the idea of pants with a waistband that stretched. One size fit all. I didn’t want to worry about whether my running shorts were gonna be too big or, God forbid, too snug.

  I left the store feeling pretty good. I dug my look. This running thing was turning out all right.

  RJ and I met the next morning at a nearby high school track for our first training run. It was early, around seven, and neither one of us looked that excited to be doing this.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Nice shorts,” he said. “What are those, like a size forty-two?”

  “Let’s just do this.”

  “Hold on,” he said.

  RJ exhaled slowly and bent over slightly. Very slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

  “What is that?” I said.

  “What?”

  “That.” I bent over slightly to show him. “What are you doing?”

  “Stretching,” RJ said. “I don’t want to pull anything.”

  “Pull this. That’s not stretching. That’s nodding. You look like you’re nodding.”

  “You’re right.” He straightened up. “Screw it. Let’s just run.”

  We hit the track and started jogging. We huffed and groaned and sweated for a good twenty minutes and then we pulled up. We had made it almost halfway around one lap. Neither of us could catch our breath. We couldn’t speak for a long time.

  “This was good,” I said finally.

  RJ held up his hand like he was ordering a beer at a Lakers game. “Great,” he said.

  At least, I think he said, “Great.” What came out of his mouth was a wheezing noise that sounded like “Grrrbrrahahflgmah.”

  “We gonna do this again tomorrow?” I said.

  RJ held his hand up again.

  I was pretty sure that meant yes.

  He called me that afternoon. “I was thinking. Running a marathon might be pushing it.”

  “You think? What gave you that idea? Was it that we ran for twenty minutes and barely made it a hundred yards?”

  “That had something to do with it, yeah.”

  “Look, man, we’re not kids. And we’re a little out of shape.”

  “A little?”

  “Yes. A tad.”

  “So let’s be realistic about this,” RJ said. “Let’s forget about the marathon.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s just do the half marathon. Thirteen miles.”

  “Brilliant,” I said. “That’ll be much easier.”

  After training like we were in boot camp every morning for the next two months, we gave up on the half marathon, too. We decided that for our first official race we should go for something a lot shorter: a 5K, which was 3.1 miles. We hadn’t been able to make it quite that far yet in our training, but we figured our excitement and adrenaline would push us through the other 2.9 miles we needed to finish.

  We signed up for a race in the San Fernando Valley on a mild Saturday morning in October. We showed up that morning along with about two thousand other eager runners. I said something about going back home and sleeping in, but RJ reached over and grabbed the keys before I could start the car up.

  “We’re doing this,” he said.

  We got out of the car and found a position twenty or so yards from the starting line. We jogged in place to get loose, and then someone counted down the last few seconds through a megaphone and the crowd started to chant, which scared the hell out of me. It sounded like the running of the bulls. Then the gun went off, scaring me even more, and all two thousand of us runners shouted and surged forward.

  Make that 1,998 of us.

  “We gotta pace ourselves,” RJ said, huffing as we jogged slightly faster than a walk.

  “Absolutely,” I said, as every other person in the race passed us. “We don’t want to burn out too soon.”

  “Right. Let’s slow it down.”

  “I don’t think we can go any slower,” I said.

  “Tough course,” RJ said, bellowing ou
t some air.

  “Tough course? We’ve gone ten feet.”

  He coughed and shot his hand in the air like he was ordering a beer at a Lakers game.

  We plowed forward. Time slowed. We kept pushing ourselves, forcing one leg in front of the other. At one point we looked at each other. RJ seemed to be running first in slow motion, and then in stop-action. I started to laugh and then I realized that I was running right beside him, which meant that I was running in slow motion and stop-action, too.

  Somehow—miraculously—we passed the first mile marker. Spectators on the side of the road cheered and ran alongside us, shouting, “You can do it!” and, “You’re looking great!” I waved and they applauded.

  I don’t know how I looked, but I felt like crap. My bottom lip cracked, and sweat poured out of every pore. I made a mental note to go back to that running store after the race, because my nipples felt fine but my dick was starting to chafe.

  I thought of picking up the pace, but I was afraid that if I moved any faster, my shorts would fall down. Suddenly, my side started to hurt. I slowed down to slightly more than a walk. I glanced over at RJ. If possible, he looked even worse than I felt.

  “How you doing?” I asked him.

  He groaned and shook his head miserably.

  “Yeah, me, too,” I said. “Remind me never to do this again.”

  “Do . . . you . . . want . . . to . . . stop?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  “Do you?”

  I looked around. I could see no one else in the race. The road around us was empty, deserted. All 1,998 runners had passed us and were somewhere way ahead of us. We were the last two runners in the race.

  “Oh, yeah, oh, yes.” RJ held up his hand like he was ordering a beer at a Lakers game.

  “What?”

  “I think I’m getting a second wind,” he said, and then one of us farted.

  We both started to laugh.

  Then RJ jogged a little faster, challenging me. He grinned at me as he started to pull ahead.

  “Hey, what the hell?” I said, pushing out a breath and moving to keep up with him.

  Suddenly I heard a clicking noise behind us, as if somebody was hitting the concrete with a stick.