I'm Not Gonna Lie Read online

  Footprints of the rich and famous.

  Yes. Their feet.

  And what about law enforcement? What is one of the main elements of solving a crime? When cops want to track a killer at a crime scene, what do CSI guys look for?

  Footprints.

  They don’t dust for elbows. Or shoulders. Or necks. They dust for fingerprints . . . and they look for footprints. A cop doesn’t say, “We caught a break. The guy leaned on this door. We got a perfect impression of his ginglymus joint. Let’s bring him in.”

  No. It’s all about feet.

  I discovered something else that has to do with feet. A life changer, at least for me.

  For a couple of years now, I’ve been doing reflexology. This stuff’s amazing. Actually blows my mind. Here’s how it works.

  I take off my shoes, lie down, close my eyes, breathe, and this very talented woman, call her Lorraine . . . rubs my feet.

  You wouldn’t believe it. It’s a miracle. I’m a new man.

  Let’s just say that I’ve experienced some stress in my life. At times I have been slightly unpleasant, impatient, irritable, and, I’ll admit, a borderline jerk. Okay, I’ll be honest: I’ve been a raging asshole. Also, like a lot of people who grew up on fast food, Slim Jims, beef jerky, soda, and lard, when I stress out, the stress goes right to my stomach. Reflexology has changed all that. I’m a million percent calmer. I’ve cut way down on my stress. I get no more stabbing pain in the pit of my stomach. I have more energy, better digestion, and a lot more patience. And I hardly ever get sick, because Lorraine, using reflexology, has removed all of my toxins. She also kick-started my qi—my invisible life force, also called my energy field—and got that humming along like a well-oiled machine. I have no idea how she got all this to happen, but she did it. . . .

  By rubbing my feet.

  I was skeptical, too. Mainly because I didn’t learn about reflexology from a doctor or a shrink or a medical Web site. I heard about it from a total stranger at the Coffee Bean.

  It’s not as crazy as it sounds. Well, okay, it’s a little bit crazy. I was hanging out at my local Coffee Bean one day sipping some Earl Grey tea, and I started talking to this woman sitting next to me. We started a casual conversation, but before I knew it, we got into one of those deep, intense discussions that I always seem to have with total strangers. I don’t know what it is. I can sometimes be more intimate with a stranger at a coffee shop than with somebody I’ve known for years. For some reason, after I turned fifty, I’ve become more open and less judgmental. I just let it fly. Got nothing to lose, I guess. Or maybe I’m making up for all the times in my twenties and thirties when I clammed up and brooded, playing the part of the sullen, moody Mexican comic. The truth is, that’s not me.

  So back at the Coffee Bean, this woman and I started this great conversation over my tea and her Mocha Ice Blended, skipping all the small talk, going right into a heavy discussion about fate and spirituality and alternative medicine. I not only believe all of that; I’m really cool with it. When death stared me in the face in my mid-forties, I became open to almost anything. So when this woman asked me, “You ever try reflexology?” I didn’t flinch.

  I’d never heard of it, and maybe I did a joke about it or told her I was particular about who touched my feet, but the truth is, I was intrigued. She insisted I try it. She was so convincing and so sure it would work for me that she gifted me an introductory visit with Lorraine. Lorraine came over a few days later. I didn’t know what to expect. I admit I was little nervous. I didn’t have to worry. She put me right at ease. There was something about her. This quiet, soft energy popped off her. This might sound crazy, but she kind of . . . glowed. I not only liked her; I trusted her. I kicked off my shoes, lay down, and let her have at it.

  Within a few seconds, as she was rubbing away, she frowned and said, “Wow. Your kidneys. I’m feeling something. Definitely. A weakness. You have digestive issues. Oh, and here. Base of your colon. Something is definitely blocked.”

  The moment she said the word “kidneys,” I was hooked.

  She’s been rubbing my feet ever since.

  I’ve now become supersensitive about my feet. And very protective. I don’t wear shoes around the house—I go barefoot or wear socks, always have—and this can cause a problem. I have hardwood floors, which I keep clean and polished, but this makes the floor as slippery and treacherous as a hockey rink. What I really needed were socks with traction. I pictured something with tread on the bottom, a combination of a sock and a tire.

  I remembered hearing about something called slipper socks. I looked them up online. I found some called Totes, which are basically socks with rubber soles. I scrolled through all the styles. I’m not putting them down, but they weren’t my style. They were too . . . girly. I couldn’t see myself wearing them. I guess I could walk around the house in them if I were alone. But I’d never wear them if there was anyone else with me. I’d look like a thirteen-year-old girl on a sleepover.

  Then Lorraine told me about compression socks. She described these tight-fitting, sheer stockings that go up to your knee or thigh and are great for your circulation. Then, to close the deal, she said, “These are the most comfortable socks you will ever wear.”

  I got excited. I did a quick search online and found an entire selection of these amazing socks. Well, first I found compression stockings, which looked like panty hose my grandmother used to wear beneath her capri pants. Or the kind of stockings a bank robber wears over his face. I stared at them in horror. I saw myself pulling these panty hose all the way up my leg, and my face morphed from my own and became an old Mexican aunt’s face, and I started to scream.

  Nooooo!

  I clicked off that page and went to the one with the compression socks.

  Better.

  Sort of.

  First of all, nobody under fifty wears compression socks. It’s not a youthful look. Or a stylish look. The guys from Jersey Shore do not wear compression socks. Apparently, they don’t wear condoms, either.

  Compression socks increase the blood flow through your legs. They’re for people with varicose veins and poor circulation. In other words, old people. But here’s the thing . . . a confession about my compression socks.

  I don’t care how they look; compression socks are the single most comfortable item of clothing I’ve ever worn. Ever. It’s as if these socks pull everything together in a heavenly way. The first time I slipped on my compression socks, I said, “Whoa. This is all right. This is better than all right. This is fantastic. I love my compression socks.”

  My only problem with wearing compression socks is that I don’t want anybody to know that I wear compression socks. Because even though you can get them online, until you figure out your proper fit, you really need to get them at a medical supply store.

  And since I’m trying to maintain a somewhat youthful image, if somebody sees me walking into a medical supply store, I’m dead. Popping into one of those places, you realize that there is a huge old-people industry.

  They have a whole section of clothes that are flame-retardant so that we don’t set ourselves on fire. There’s a wide selection of handrails. By the way, if you need some kind of marker to let you know when you’ve turned the corner from middle-aged to old, here it is:

  When you have to put in a handrail to walk upstairs to bed.

  And it’s five steps.

  You also find many choices of wheelchairs in the medical supply store, some with ejector seats.

  This is perfect for when you discover that you can’t get out of your chair on your own, when you hit, say, fifty-two or fifty-three. All you do is press a button in the arm and the seat flies up and boots you out—ejects you—just like you’re in one of James Bond’s cars. Except you’re not. You’re in a damn wheelchair.

  Then they have special devices that make putting your clothes on easier.
I found this tool called a “buttonhook/zipper pull” that has a wire on it that you slip through the buttonhole of your shirt and then you pull it so you don’t have to fumble with the button to open your shirt. You just hook the thing through and pull. Works with a zipper, too. I guess you put it through the other way and the thing buttons your shirt.

  Actually, this doesn’t sound so bad.

  As long as I don’t forget where I put it . . .

  The bottom line is, this place is for old people. If you want to appear young, you cannot get caught going into a medical supply store. It’s worse than if you get caught going into an Asian massage parlor. It’s tricky to pull this off, because sneaking into a medical supply store is only half the battle. You also have to sneak out.

  You can usually control going in. That part’s not bad. You just have to look around, make sure the coast is clear, flip your collar up, pull your ball cap down, and run like hell. But coming out? That’s the problem. You have no control. You don’t know what’s going on out there. You have no idea who might be outside walking by, lurking, getting ready to bust you.

  “George? Is that you? Yes, it is. George Lopez. How about that?”

  “Yes. Hi, there. Hello. What a surprise. I haven’t seen you in a while. You’re looking great, yes, very trim and fit.”

  “Did you just come out of that medical supply store?”

  “Me? No.”

  “It looked like you did.”

  “Oh, see, I came through the medical supply store. I was en route.”

  “En route? From where?”

  “The Asian massage parlor. I’m very tight. Muscles bulging. Need to loosen up—”

  “What’s in that bag? Oh, wow. I don’t believe this. Compression socks.”

  “They’re for my aunt. She has bad circulation. And later on she’s gonna hold up a bank. By the way, you look like hell.”

  As long as we’re on the subject of feet and my cozy compression socks, I have another confession. This one’s even weirder.

  As we’ve established, when you turn fifty, everything starts to go. I’ve already admitted that I dye my hair. But white hair does not stay confined to the hair on your head. For example, my nose hairs are turning white. I trim them every day. And when I see a white hair popping out of my nose like a little snowy weed, I go right after it.

  A lot of times I’ll notice a new one when I’m driving. I’ll catch sight of it in the rearview mirror. Pop. The little sucker will just appear. It drives me crazy, because the older you get, the stronger your nose hairs become. I’m not sure why. There must be some scientific reason. But once a nose hair grows long enough for you to see it sticking out like a little white tail, you know it will be a bitch to pull out. One good yank will not do it. It often takes several. And even one nose hair pull will make you cry.

  To yank those things out, you really need a tool. Some kind of implement. A nose hair extractor. I should invent something like that. How great would this be? You insert a tiny button into your fingertip—have it embedded in there like one of those electronic chips you put under your dog’s skin so you can track him if he wanders off—then you hit the button and a tiny nose hair extractor shoots out. Flies right out of your finger so you can remove those nasty little nose hairs on the go. That would be amazing. I’m gonna patent that.

  By the way, it’s not just my nose hairs that are turning white.

  My pubes, too.

  Sprouting white as Santa’s beard. Like a snow bush. I dye that area, too. I cannot allow people to see me—even in the privacy of my bedroom—and say, “Who are you? You’re not George Lopez. George Lopez does not have long white sinewy nose hairs and a snowy white pubic area. No. That’s not George Lopez. Or if it is, I have to say, what happened to you?”

  Now back to the confession. And this has nothing at all to do with vanity.

  I paint my toenails.

  And I’m proud of it.

  At the moment—I’m looking at them right now—I have painted my toenails black. And they are looking sharrrp.

  Yes, black. Well, a shade of black. I would call this a deep midnight black, not a subtle, soft black that you could pass off as a navy blue or charcoal gray. I am aware of all of the various shades. There are dozens.

  Why do I paint my toenails?

  Two reasons.

  First, as I mentioned, my feet are important to me. You get old, your toes get beat up, your nails get chipped and cracked and ugly and messed up. So I paint my toenails to protect them.

  Second, my toes look awesome painted.

  Hey, a lot of guys do it.

  At least, a lot of guys I know.

  The first guy who told me he painted his toenails was Shaquille O’Neal. Yes, that Shaquille O’Neal. All seven feet, three hundred fifty pounds of him. I thought, “If Shaq paints his toenails, not only is there nothing wrong with painting your toenails; painting your toenails is cool.” So, yes, if Shaq paints his toenails, I’m gonna paint mine. And if you have a problem with that, I’m gonna tell Shaq that you think he’s a pussy because he paints his toenails.

  I don’t paint them myself. That would be weird. I go to a nail salon. Same place Shaq goes to.

  First time I went there, I figured I’d just get a pedicure. I wanted to go slow, take it a step at a time. I didn’t think about putting on any polish. When the pedicure lady finished, she said, “You want color?”

  I said, “No. No color.”

  She shrugged and said, “Shaquille O’Neal, he come, he put color. He put black.”

  I said, “Shaq put on black?”

  “Yes. Mr. Shaquille put on black.”

  “You know what? Do that. Give me the same thing Shaq gets. Put black.”

  “Once you go black, you never go back. Hahahaha!”

  She went to work. She took her time, applied the black toenail polish like an artist with a tiny brush. When she was finished, I stared at my feet for about thirty seconds. I felt strange. It felt as if I were looking at somebody else’s feet. I wiggled my toes just to be sure.

  “You like?”

  “You know what?” I said. “It’s all right.”

  That was fourteen years ago. I’ve been painting my toenails ever since. And I’ve branched out from black. I’ve experimented with silver and purple and even veered off a single color and tried designs. I’ve gone with sparkles and swirls and some spots and crackles. After all my experimentation, I always end up going back to a solid color. Those other toenail designs are too feminine. Painting my toenails seems totally natural now. I can’t imagine my piggies without polish. I’ve become a toenail-painting fool.

  I know. It seems crazy. You never would’ve thought that I, George Lopez, would paint my toenails and actually like the way my feet look. I never would’ve thought that, either.

  When you turn fifty, you shouldn’t be afraid to try new things. It’s time to expand your thinking. Shake things up.

  Some advice.

  Before you go into the box, think outside the box.

  SPOONING WITH ROVER

  WHEN you turn fifty, people assume that you can’t possibly date a younger woman. White hair, young woman? No. Doesn’t fit. People don’t get it. And they can be so rude. I have a friend, a young actress—call her Lindsey—whom I’ve been mentoring. I’ve been giving her advice, trying to guide her in business and in life. Lindsey is young, very attractive, and tiny. If you saw me walking down the street with her and you allowed your mind to go to that “is he dating her?” place, you’d think I was dating a toddler. That’s how young she looks. But most people refuse to go there. They just assume.

  THE POSSIBILITY THAT I COULD BE ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED WITH A WOMAN THAT YOUNG AND THAT ATTRACTIVE BLOWS THEIR MINDS.

  “Oh, hello. Is this your daughter?”

  The possibility that I could be romantically involv
ed with a woman that young and that attractive blows their minds. And they don’t even give me a chance to introduce her or engage them in conversation. I would prefer this:

  “Oh, hello. How are you? Sharon, this is Lindsey.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lindsey. And how do you know George?”

  That’s better than people making a huge leap. Then either Lindsey or I have the opportunity to respond appropriately: “We’ve been friends forever,” or, “We’re dating,” or, “We met five minutes ago at Cheetah’s. She gave me a lap dance.” I hate people getting up in my face and rudely asking, “Is this your daughter?”

  We’ve become a country of know-it-alls. I think it’s because of all of the information instantly available to us with the tap of a finger. If I’m sitting in a restaurant with a friend trying to enjoy a nice quiet lunch, people have no problem snapping a picture of me with their smartphones. That drives me crazy. I will never turn away a request for a picture or an autograph if somebody asks me. But people who sneak pictures of me without asking and then post them on the Internet piss me off.

  And it makes it so much harder to lie.

  “Where are you, George?”

  “At the car wash. Then I’m gonna go pick up the dry cleaning and maybe hit a bucket of balls—”

  “Really? I just saw on Twitter that you’re at Cheetah’s, sitting in the front row. ‘Hey, guess who’s in the next booth? Hashtag Georgelopez.’”

  Social media, man. Suddenly everyone’s a reporter.

  It really messes you up.

  Even if you are a gifted liar, born with a poker face, like me.

  • • •

  ONCE I stopped lying, everything changed.

  Including my relationships with women.

  When I was younger, I never did well with women. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was because I used to be incredibly shy and insecure. Even so, I wasn’t terrible-looking, and I always tried to dress nice. It didn’t matter. I could not get a date. Not one. Zero. Women just didn’t find me attractive. I couldn’t get laid at a women’s prison.