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Damn it.

“You’ll change your mind,” Stacey said.

Naturally, she was right. Don’t tell her though. She’ll just gloat about it.

Of course, I realize that nothing on my list matters if I don’t take better care of myself, so I’d like to:

Lose twenty pounds.

I know I’ve tried this before, actually basing a whole book on the subject. What’s different now is I finally realize that weight loss entails more than just limiting calories and maximizing movement. Before, I chipped away at the symptoms and never at the disease itself. What I need to do is figure out
why
I make bad choices and what leads me to self-sabotage. If I approach weight loss in wellness terms, considering not just physical factors, but also emotional, spiritual, intellectual, and social, I’ll see some success. I don’t need to fit into my high school jeans, but considering I’ll likely fly coach to Italy, I’d like to fit comfortably in the cheap seats.

However, I can’t discount physical activity as part of the process, so I’d like to:

Run a 5K.

See? I don’t need to go nuts and pledge to complete a marathon because I’m sure I’d cause more damage to myself than I’d prevent. A 5K seems like a tangible goal that I can work toward without absolutely being miserable.

I also want to:

Learn self-defense.

I don’t want to carry a weapon. I want to be a weapon, largely because if shit ever goes down, I’ll likely be too slow to run away terribly far or fast, no matter how many 5Ks for which I might train. Also, I just watched
Point of No Return
for the millionth time and I’m inspired anew by how much ass Bridget Fonda could kick.

(Sidebar: Where the hell is she now? I loved her and then, poof! Totally gone.)

And while I’m on the subject of the physical, I want to:

Learn to ride a bike.

I know, I
know.

The fact that I’ve not been on a bike since I was about twelve is super lame. They say you can’t forget, but I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten. Plus, the whole thing makes me anxious. It’s not that I’m afraid of riding a bike so much as it is I’m afraid of falling off of one and ruining my dental work. Also, I’m worried—and I hate that I worry—that everyone will hear Queen lyrics when they see this fat-bottomed girl on the bike path.

I have to get past this.

Ultimately, my goal in life is to arrive at the finish line without having regrets. I don’t want to reflect on my time on this earth and beat myself up for not having made an effort, for not pushing myself, for allowing small obstacles or personal pride to stand in my way. I don’t want to be there on my deathbed wondering what was so damn hard about riding a bike in the first place.

As I draft these ideas, I realize that most of what I want to try requires some planning, which totally makes sense. I believe a bucket list item should entail effort, practice, or execution because
if anything on the list were easy, I wouldn’t feel like I’d earned the check mark.

My theory is that success will help rebuild the kind of confidence that I’ve allowed assholes on social media to chip away over the past few years.

Remind me, was everyone happier back in the days before anyone with a broadband connection and a keyboard could absolutely crucify complete strangers with their words? I suspect that yes, we were. Jesus, I’m still reeling from the anonymous
Chicago Tribune
commenter who suggested that I “go back to [my] job behind the perfume counter” rather than continue to try to write a column.

That stung. Big-time.

On a more positive note, I’ll wager that the
pursuit
of achievement in each case will be just as important as checking the item off my list. Sure, I’ll go to Italy, but all the planning, the research, and the preparation that goes into getting me there will make me appreciate the journey even more.

In terms of striving for success and personal development, I’d also like to:

Start a new line of business.

I’m very happy writing books and I can’t imagine I’d ever willingly retire. Work fulfills me too much and I’m at the point where I’ve developed a better work-life balance. I’m more conscientious about scheduling time to vacuum, even when I’m on deadline. And our diets are far less cupcake-based now than when previous manuscripts were due. So, that’s a bonus.

I’d love to write forever, but there are a couple of inherent problems here. First, my whole industry’s been flipped on its ear due to changes in not only how books are published, but who publishes them. Five years ago, the notion of self-publishing was a joke, but now it’s a viable option and suddenly the market’s flooded
with new material. With the advent of the iPad, if I’m any indication, people are reading less. Honestly, I’m much more likely to watch a movie on a plane than I am to read a book. Doesn’t mean I love books less, but I don’t have as much time for them now. Because of the above, bookstores are struggling, so they’re carrying less inventory, which means fewer choices for the consumer. And who knows how long my style will be in style.

Anyway, writing enhances my life in so many ways that I’ll never give it up, but I’m practical enough to not disregard the stack of bills that arrives every month. If I could find an additional way to generate revenue in some form, I’d feel less anxious about the future.

Everything listed thus far requires effort and commitment. The only item I have that will require more luck than effort is:

Have a conversation with an icon.

Is it shallow to say I want to meet someone I’ve idolized for years? Because I do. But I don’t want to just have a picture taken with them, like I did when I met Alec Baldwin a few years ago. Sure, that was cool, and that snapshot’s definitely on my mantel, but we didn’t really converse or connect.

There was no spark of recognition or mutual understanding. There was no feeling, even for a second, of being colleagues, even though we were at an event for authors and I’d written more books than he had. He was a movie star and I was some asshole in a cheap dress with an iPhone. Maybe it’s a weird thing to want, but it’s a goal, nonetheless. I have no idea how to pursue it, but I’m putting it out there
Secret
-style anyway.

Finally, the last item on my list is simple but necessary:

Remove this damn tattoo.

(No explanation required.)

This list is a jumping-off point and my intention isn’t to check out as soon as I’m done. Rather, I want to begin to undertake a series of challenges in this second chapter of life to keep from stagnating, to keep moving forward.

I wonder, how will this list change my life in the short term? What about the long term? Will I find Italy so dirty and frustrating that I never want to visit Europe again? Or will I love it so much that I make plans to eventually go all ex-pat? What will pursuing a new line of business bring? How will my self-defense classes shake out? Will I eventually see myself on the news as one of those innocuous old ladies who literally beats the dog shit out of her teenage attacker? Will I become my own Internet meme in my housedress and support stockings, all, “I took that boy to SCHOOL.” Will I love training for a 5K so much that there will be marathons in my future?

I’m excited to find out, so let’s light this candle.

Because, really?

I’m not getting any younger here.

5.

She’s the Man

“Whoa, check out that awesome bike!”

We’re taking a spin in our own personal midlife crisis–mobile (read: a used convertible) through the lakefront Fort Sheridan neighborhood, which formerly housed officers from the local army base. When the base closed in the 1990s, the Department of Defense sold the land to local developers and now the area’s been reborn by way of attractive housing units. Every house, apartment, and townhome was gutted and refurbished, but developers saved the exteriors, so all the homes are still made of the original yellow brick. This makes for a neighborhood that’s either beautifully cohesive or super-Stepford, based on your point of view.

(Sidebar: Why is a reference to
The Stepford Wives
now the benchmark for that which is evil and off? I mean, sure, there are some inherently feminist problems with turning women into man-pleasing robots, but, my God! The landscaping! The lemonade stands! As a relatively new homeowner, I have a profound appreciation for anything that ups neighborhood property values.)

(Additional sidebar: I’m sorry, Ms. Steinem.)

We’ve driven by this development a hundred times since moving to the suburbs but never actually explored the area until today. After running our errands earlier, we bought beverages at the drive-through Starbucks across from the entrance. I used to gripe about Fletch’s constant coffee consumption until I finally realized that it’s a small way to make him happy. Also, it’s easier than arguing for twenty minutes on why we don’t need to stop. Sometimes compromise tastes like caramel macchiato.

We’ve always been interested as to what is behind the iron gates, and, as it’s warm and sunny, this seems like the perfect time to reconnoiter. Convertible season is pathetically abbreviated in Illinois, so we take advantage of it whenever we can.

By the way, never tell the Trader Joe’s cashier that you “spent the day with the top down” because he will wrongly believe you’re talking about your shirt and not your retractable canvas roof. He’ll assume you’re hitting on him, despite the fact that (a) you’re married to your best friend, (b) you’re tubby, (c) you’re twenty-five years his senior, and (d) you’re vehemently opposed to ever making out with someone who voluntarily wears a Hawaiian shirt. Plus, he’ll notice all the two-buck Chuck and mini peanut butter cups in your cart and give you that bless-your-heart look and you’ll want to smack the pity off of his annoyingly sympathetic young face.

Speaking of going to Cougar Town, a while ago, Fletch and I were at the dinner table when we saw an ad for some super-explode-y, CGI-filled, possibly alien-invading movie. Now, the only thing I love more than body-swapping flicks are those where action heroes spout a few quips while battling creatures from another planet, à la “I could have been at a barbecue!”

“Hey,” I said. “Rewind that.” If you aren’t one to watch television during dinner, then please congratulate yourself on not slogging along in the cultural morass that is my life. “I believe I’d like to see that film.”

Fletch rolled his eyes. “Of course you would.” He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully and then added, “I think Channing Tatum might be in the movie,” which caused me to make what can only be described as an unholy noise coupled with a massive intake of breath.

He shook his head with a mixture of pity and disgust. “I don’t get it—how come you’re allowed to ogle Channing Tatum with impunity?”

I replied, “Because my interest in him is innocent. I don’t want to marry him. I want to be married to you. I don’t visit Cougar Town, if for no reason other than a twentysomething wouldn’t understand my cultural references. Remember last summer when we were playing Catchphrase with Julia and Finch and the word was ‘champion.’ And I sang, ‘
We are the mm-mm-mms, we are the mm-mm-mms . . . of the world!’
and Julia had zero clue because she’s ten years younger? I can totally be friends with that, but I could never marry that.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” he replied.

“Seriously,” I said, “I don’t even want to
make out
with Channing Tatum. Pretty much my plans would include gawping and giggling. Maybe I’d put him in a bow tie and shirtless vest and have him serve drinks poolside, but that’s it. I’d keep my hands to myself.”

Saying nothing in response, Fletch loaded his fork with a large hunk of osso buco and a small piece of red potato.

I pointed at his plate. “I couldn’t be with Channing because I’m sure he doesn’t touch carbs or red meat. Total deal breaker. You can’t love me for my spaghetti Bolognese if your trainer doesn’t let you near pasta, right? And then, if we were to somehow have a meal together and he were to take a monster bite of something, he’d never get the reference when I’d say, ‘Bart! Sensible bites!’ You know, from the episode when Lisa went vegetarian on
The
Simpsons
.”