I Regret Nothing: A Memoir Page 7

  I’ve violated his trust and I’m about to get divorced. Or, I’m about to find a severed head in my toilet.

  What will the Internet have to say about that?

  7.

  I DON’T BELIEVE IN PETER PAN, FRANKENSTEIN, OR SUPERMAN

  How do I tell Fletch I bought a three-wheeled bike? Seriously, I’m worried here. Is there a Wikipedia entry on how to break terrible news?

  Fortunately, the Internet isn’t just a public burn-book. With a quick search, I find an entry about how to explain to your spouse that you have venereal disease. This is perfect for my purposes, except I’ll substitute the words “three-wheeled bike” for “genital herpes.”

  From WebMD: “Before you tell, learn all you can about genital herpes three-wheeled bikes so you can be prepared to answer any questions your partner may have. Stress that it’s they are very common. Hearing the one-in-five statistic could be a relief. Also explain what it means to have it a three-wheeled bike.”

  Okay, I can work with this.

  Farther down, the article explains where to tell your partner: “In addition to language, the setting can affect the outcome, too. Don’t interrupt what your partner is doing to break the news. That is, don’t call him or her at work, or barge into a room and say, ‘Hey, we have to talk.’ That’s how you might deliver news of a death in the family or start an argument.”

  Good to know. I do tend to barge.

  “The right setting is a relaxing one, just the two of you, where there won’t be any distractions. A conversation over a quiet dinner or a walk in the park is preferable to a bowling alley or the supermarket.”

  So, no bowling alleys or Whole Foods. Got it.

  “It would be best to let the topic come up naturally in conversation. That way, it would seem less like a bombshell and more like any other development in your life. For example, you could say, “Just so you know, my doctor amazon.com called me yesterday with some test results shipping updates, and said I have the virus that causes genital herpes a three-wheeled bike on the way.”

  Hmm.

  This may not proceed as planned, because I’m not sure Amazon calls anyone. They seem strictly Net-based. What are my other options?

  I Google “How to tell your partner you’ve cheated.” That might be better, as this is sort of a gross violation of trust.

  AllWomenStalk.com suggests I stick to the parameters of being honest, apologizing, and understanding that he might need time to process the news. Their advice feels less useful because (a) I don’t think I stalk anyone—much, and, (b) all I’ve really done is purchase a piece of exercise equipment that will, in theory, make me healthier, add to my longevity, and complete a bucket list item.

  Besides, his is an unreasonable prejudice. I could understand if he didn’t want me to attempt something profoundly risky, like buying a motorcycle or heli-skiing in a mountain inhabited by Afghan warlords. What’s the worst thing that could happen to either of us here? Maybe he’ll have some secondhand shame over my tooling around on three wheels, but he doesn’t have to accompany me when I ride. (Even though he’d likely fit in the basket if he scrunched up and was willing to hold a cat on his lap.)

  Also, I have to stress that I’m not sorry for buying the bike.

  You know what? I’m being silly about all of this. I’m just going to tell him straight up and that will be that. Our marriage is built on a solid foundation of love, respect, understanding, and forgiveness and it’s not like I’m engaging in anything illegal/immoral/fattening.

  I’m going to barge into his office and tell him right now.

  Or, definitely later today.

  • • •

  Or Tuesday.

  You know what? My calendar is wiiiiide open on Wednesday.

  • • •

  Shit, my bike is being delivered tomorrow. I’m out of time. I have to fess up before UPS wheels it down the driveway.

  (Sidebar: I wonder if they’ll put a big bow on it for me like in those Lexus December to Remember ads? I didn’t see where I could select a huge ribbon as an option, but maybe it’s an assumed with Amazon Prime? They are really service-oriented, so it’s totes possible.)

  I’m on the computer frantically checking the tracking number to see how many hours I have left before the truth becomes evident when Fletch calls to me.

  “Hey, Jen, can you come into my office?”

  My stomach drops down to my feet, my thoughts race, and I think, OHMIGOD, I’M GETTING FIRED.

  How is it possible I’m getting fired? What did I do badly this time?

  I quickly scan my mental Rolodex of potential transgressions. I did nothing wrong, that’s what! Oh, I will fight this. I’ll get a lawyer. A good one, too, not one of those bus bench bozos, and we will have our day in court.

  Fired?

  Bite me.

  I’m not standing for this. Let me tell you something—he can’t fire me because I quit!

  Wait, what am I quitting, exactly?

  I wonder if this flash of insanity is going to be my knee-jerk reaction to being summoned to anyone’s office for the rest of my life? The last—and first and only—time I was laid off was in 2001, but somehow that worry still surfaces every time I’m asked to enter anyone’s office.

  Fletch pokes his head into my office. “Jen? It’s two o’clock. We have a call with Scott.”

  Oh. I forgot we scheduled a chat with my agent. That makes more sense than being fired from a job I don’t actually hold.

  I follow Fletch to the spare bedroom that he’s appropriated as his workspace, with three dogs in tow. I’m not sure what useful information Libby, Hammy, and Loki can offer to our conversation about contract terms and manuscript due dates, but I love that they insist on being a part anyway. Fletch closes the door behind us—who, exactly, is he keeping out, as all the cats are in here as well?—and he dials my agent’s number.

  The call connects and Fletch and Scott share pleasantries while I have a total lightbulb moment. I’ve got it! I should break the news to Fletch while we’re on the phone; that way he can’t be mad at me or else he’ll look like some sort of unreasonable jerk, hulking out over nonsense.

  The guys are going over the calendar of when I get paid so we can plan our spending accordingly. The upside of being an author is that I get to pursue what I love for a living. The downside, other than opening myself up to unsolicited insults, is I receive only a handful of checks a year, so we must carefully manage our outlays.

  “We’re on the honor system,” Fletch explains to Scott. “We don’t buy anything over a hundred dollars without telling the other person first, in case those funds are earmarked for something else.”

  “Sounds like it’s working for you,” Scott replies.

  “For the most part, it does,” Fletch responds. “Except once in a while something unexpected comes up, like we have a repair that requires something specialized, say, a wet/dry vac or a drill press or—”

  I’m not going to get a better opening than this.

  I brace myself and swallow hard before blurting, “Or a three-wheeled bike.”

  At the same time, both Fletch and Scott say, “A what?”

  “Well,” I explain, my words rushing out in a pique of panic, “ever notice how sometimes you’re in the car coming back from Wisconsin and you find yourself thinking, ‘Sure are a lot of happy fat people on bikes up here,’ and then you’re all, ‘Hey, I could be a happy fat person on a bike’ and you wonder if Amazon sells them because if they do then that’s a sign from God, especially if there’s a Buy with One Click button and somehow there’s a cellular data connection even though you’re driving past a field so it’s definitely meant to be and that’s kind of what I did and it’s significant because Fletch is afraid of three-wheeled bikes but in my head, I’m all, ‘If not now then when, especially because the meat in my knees is
n’t going to last forever and if I wait until I’m an actual senior citizen, that ship may have sailed?’ which is kind of the whole point of pursuing a bucket list, so I’m mentioning this to you both now to make sure Fletch doesn’t go apoplectic and fire me from our marriage.”

  The ensuing silence is deafening. Hammy and Loki begin to slink toward the door, while Libby tenderly places a paw on my knee as if to say, “You deserve any heads you might find in your toilet.”

  In measured tones, Fletch asks, “Did you buy one?” His expression registers the trifecta of shock, revulsion, and confusion.

  “Maybe?” I reply, baring my teeth in my best approximation of a smile.

  “Is it maybe or is it definitely?” Scott clarifies.

  I say, “Definitely?” which causes Fletch to close his eyes and shake his head.

  “And this is problematic?” Scott probes.

  “Do you consider divorce problematic?” I say. “Not buying a three-wheeler is one of the unbreakable rules in our marriage, which is weird, if you ask me. Like, who’s afraid of an awesome bike? I’m not afraid of buying coffee every twenty-six minutes because I believe marriage is all about compromise.”

  Fletch is unmoved. “You did buy one?”

  “Yes, and it’ll be here tomorrow, which means we can ride together over the weekend! Won’t it be fun for us to have a healthy outdoor activity we can do as a couple like all those folks in the Cialis commercials? Also, FYI, I would not be opposed to getting two big cast-iron claw-foot tubs and soaking side by side watching the sunset.” He says nothing, so I continue to try to sell him. “And my new three-wheeled bike is the kind of cherry-cola-red color that will totally enhance my tan.”

  There’s a long moment of silence until Fletch says, “No, no, two wheels is a bicycle. Three wheels is a tricycle. You bought a tricycle. An adult tricycle.”

  “It’s a one-speed!”

  Fletch purses his lips so hard that they disappear. “Not a selling point.”

  “And I bought a separate wicker basket to put on the front so I’ll have double the carrying capacity.”

  “Also not a selling point.”

  “There’s a superwide gel-filled seat so it’s extra squishy.”

  Fletch responds by exhaling loudly.

  “I could fit three pugs in the back of it.”

  “Do you guys have pugs? I thought you had pit bulls,” Scott says.

  “No, but we could totally get some,” I reply. “I’ve been looking into handlebar streamers, as well as a flag for the back. For visibility. And style.”

  “Do you need attention? Is that what this is about?” Fletch asks.

  “Here’s what you do,” Scott suggests, fully embracing his agent- fixes-everything role. “The bike will be a bucket list item—”

  I jump in. “Already the plan.”

  “Perfect,” Scott replies. “Write off the cost since it’s for a book and when you’re done with it, you have a contest to give it away.”

  Best. Agent. Ever.

  Except I’m never giving this bike away, but I feel now’s not the optimal time to mention this.

  Resigned, Fletch sighs and leans back into his seat. “So we have a tricycle now. Do I have to assemble it, too?”

  Feeling a huge weight off my shoulders, I finally allow myself to be excited about the purchase. “No, I’m pretty sure UPS will wheel it down the driveway all birthday-present-style.”

  • • •

  Fletch has bike parts scattered from one end of the garage to the other. “This is not birthday-present-style.”

  Apparently I was way off on how UPS delivers bikes.

  “I luff you,” I reply and I mean it. For all his bluster and protest, he’s still out here in the trillion-degree garage, assembling the enormous box of tricycle. The sweat pours off of him, so I duck inside to bring him a bottle of water and a glass of iced tea. He downs them both in about fifteen seconds flat.

  I sit on the cement garage step. “You want me to keep you company?”

  He declines, mumbling something about not wanting to make any marriage-limiting remarks, so I go check on the dogs in the back. They’re all wandering around, chewing grass, which is a massive relief. A couple of days ago—and I still can’t figure out how—the girls got out of the fence. Their escape nearly ended me, even though they never left the wood line in the front yard and we found them five minutes later. If how I am with these dogs is any indication, I would be the world’s worst helicopter parent, equipping them all with helmets and never once letting them cut their own pork chops.

  Fletch and I both inspected every inch of the fence and we’ll be damned if we can figure how they slipped away. When we first moved in, we noticed an opening about a foot high, under where part of the bathroom juts out and the fence doesn’t overlap. Spotting the potential for trouble, Fletch immediately pounded in stakes to prevent exit and I planted a bush, so the gap was never an issue. If these girls have learned to scale a five-foot fence, then we’re all in big trouble. There must be something we’re missing, because surely they haven’t grown wings.

  Surely.

  About an hour later, Fletch comes inside, soaked in sweat, but satisfied at having completed the job. “It’s all done.” I head to the garage to inspect.

  As one prone to exaggeration and with a tendency to turn even the smallest victory into something both epic and heroic, it’s with all seriousness that I say THIS IS THE GREATEST THING TO EVER HAPPEN TO ME IN MY ENTIRE LIFE AND I HOPE I GET REINCARNATED AS MYSELF SO I CAN COME BACK AND RELIVE THE MOMENT WHEN I SEE MY AWESOME NEW THREE-WHEELED BIKE FOR THE FIRST TIME AGAIN.

  “Aiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee!” There is giggling and there is clapping and there are lumbering leaps of joy as I dance around the sweltering garage, while yips of glee squirt out of me, forming nonsensical utterances.

  “If I’d known you’d have this reaction, I’d have given in sooner,” Fletch admits. “Now, why don’t you take her for a spin?”

  I pull Big Red out of the garage and onto the blacktop. (Naturally a craft this fine deserves a name.) Like an Alaskan pilot inspecting a seaplane for her maiden voyage across the Bering Strait, I scrutinize every inch and seam, running my hands over her sparkly paint job and squeezing the handbrakes until I’m satisfied that she is, indeed, ready for flight.

  I swing my right leg through the opening and place my foot on the pedal and then pull myself up onto the seat, which is cushiony as a cloud and generously proportioned even for those of us with the most ample posteriors.

  Then I have a mental picture of how I must look.

  “Do you suddenly have Queen lyrics in your head?” I ask Fletch.

  “I’m not dignifying that with a response,” he replies, even though I’m fairly sure Internet trolls would be sure to comment on how I make this rockin’ world go ’round.

  As I get my bearings, I note that I’m able to sit up straight, so I can focus on what’s in front of me, rather than staring at the ground beneath me. And I love how the whole thing is balanced, even as I sit completely still. Big Red feels solid and sturdy, ready to stand up against anything Across the Street Kent could throw at me.

  “Are you just going to sit there?” Fletch asks.

  “No, sir,” I say. “I’m going to ride.”

  (Sidebar: As I type the above sentence, my iMac changes my word choice to “I’m going to die.” And that is what you call foreshadowing.)

  8.

  WE BE ROLLIN’

  You know that old adage about how you never forget how to ride a bike?

  Lies.

  Damn lies.

  Somehow I thought the three wheels would make for a smooth ride, and I’m sure to an extent they do, but the last time I owned a bike, I weighed eighty-five pounds, which was a lot easier to balance and control. Plus, back then I wasn’t despera
tely afraid of falling off and splatting on the ground like a cartoon coyote after an unfortunate incident with an anvil.

  I pedal down the driveway with great hesitation and I’m deeply dismayed by how placing even a tiny bit of inconsistent pressure on the handlebars makes this thing veer all over the place. If I were on the road, I’d be pulled over for suspicion of operating under the influence. On my way back up the drive, I careen off the pavement twice and once into a small oak tree that never stood a chance.

  I take another spin toward the mailbox and this time I actually fall off, scraping the bejesus out of my knee. How did this happen? How can this be? This is like falling off a golf cart or small tram. My God, what if I biff and chip my stupid veneers? I don’t even want to imagine that.

  I figure I’ll improve with practice, so I take a third trip down the driveway, followed by a fourth, fifth, and sixth. Down seems to be the operative word. I can’t seem to master the turns and each time I try, I begin to list dangerously to the side.

  Now that I’ve fallen off, I’m spooked, so I’m riding even more tentatively and each trip is an exercise in dread. If this driveway is any indication, I fear I’m going to seriously injure myself when I ride on the road. Would it be weird to not only wear a helmet, but also a mouth guard, elbow protectors, and kneepads? Maybe some soccer shin-guards for good measure?

  I try and try for the next thirty minutes, assuming at some point my instincts will kick in and I can relax, but they don’t so I can’t. Why is this so challenging? Bike riding is a basic skill that can be mastered by your average elementary school student. Aren’t I smarter than a fifth grader?

  So far, no, not in this instance.

  After my third major fall and my sixth slaughtered sapling without ever actually having left the driveway, I call it quits and I slowly wheel Big Red back into the garage.

  In my life, I have a tendency to pursue only that which I might have a talent for doing. So, sometimes it may look like I’m unfairly successful (aka the Facebook effect) but it’s only because I’ve already eliminated ninety-nine percent of the activities at which I’d fail. I feel deep-seated terror over being embarrassed by poor performance, which is why there are so many things I’ve never even tried. Couple that with the Things I Don’t Want to Do Until I’m Thinner (come on, you know you have them too) like taking horseback riding lessons or learning to tap-dance, and suddenly the options that are open to me in my universe can feel limited.