Finding It: And Finally Satisfying My Hunger for Life (28 page)

After one more trip to New York, I faced Christopher for the first time in a week. We were in the entry hall, standing next to suitcases that Tom and I had left there the night before, too tired to drag them down the hall into the bedroom. I was holding a coffee cup, trying to generate some energy. My trainer was not pleased.

“How many more weeks till the commercial?” he asked.

“A little more than three,” I said.

“And are you ready?”

I shook my head no.

He shook his head in response, as if to say you poor, pathetic procrastinator, it’s time to get serious.

And then he simply said it:

“It’s time to get serious. No more trips or travel until after the shoot.”

“All right,” I said.

“And no more alcohol,” he added.

“It’s Ash Wednesday,” I said, “a perfect time to give up alcohol—until after the shoot.”

I drew an imaginary line in the sand, just as when I had started my diet two years ago and vowed not to have a martini until I lost 25 pounds. I don’t know what it is about me, but I need that type of mega challenge to get me up to the next level. With my back against the wall, I will muster a fierce determination and either reach my goal or go down in flames trying, and that’s precisely where I was.

My weight was 131. Christopher said it was time to break through that barrier. He wanted me to aim for burning 3,000 calories a day. That meant twice-a-day workouts—once with him in the morning and then again by myself in the afternoon. Basically, if I was awake, I was working out. Wolfie would see me on the treadmill when he left for school, and I was usually on the Stair-master when he came home.

“Oh, you’re exercising again?” he would say. “What a surprise.”

I thought that if I exercised more and ate even less I would lose more weight, and do it faster. But Christopher had me eat three meals a day plus a snack or two, because my body wouldn’t function properly if I ate too little. Too few calories and it would start to shut down, or go into starvation mode, as it tried to hang on to the fuel that allowed it to perform properly. This regimen was about working hard but doing it in a healthy manner; it was to make me strong, not sick.

We had many illuminating talks about weight, nutrition, and fitness. We also talked about my body more than I had ever talked about it with anyone else. Christopher would get very specific about my arms or my thighs or some other body part. He looked
at me like a sculptor. It was strange to focus so intently on my body since I had never been one of those actresses who steamed up the screen by taking off her clothes. Nor was I different in my personal life. But now, talking about my curves and abs and definition in my thighs was as natural as discussing the weather. Well, almost—

One day I was complaining that my butt seemed to defy all the miles I had logged and the weights I had lifted. It didn’t look any smaller to me. With ten days to go before the shoot, I practically cried myself to sleep. I didn’t think I could do it. I couldn’t say why, whether it was my weight or I didn’t feel right. My insecurity turned into negativity and snowballed. Christopher stopped it.

“You’re tired,” he said. “You’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

“But I’ve had these problem areas since I was a kid,” I argued.

“You are in amazing shape,” he said.

“I am,” I said.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Strong. Healthy.”

“Then stop looking at yourself the way you did thirty-five years ago—or even three years ago. You’re better than that.”

On March 2, I confronted the enemy for the first time. Nancy, the woman who handles wardrobe for all my Jenny Craig commercials, brought over a number of bikinis. I hadn’t put one of those suckers on in twenty-eight years, and I was reminded of why when I looked at myself in the first one I tried on. Again, I cried myself to sleep.

Nancy continued to bring more swimsuits, none of which worked. Complicating matters, I got my period—not real good for the self-esteem when trying on bathing suits. I was ready to shoot my scale—and anything else in my line of sight.

“If I had a gun,” I said to Christopher.

“You’d see a Stairmaster and a treadmill with bullets in them,” Tom said, “and one dead Sicilian.”

My manager, Marc, was poised to call the whole thing off if I didn’t feel 100 percent confident. Interestingly, he never asked me how I felt; instead he spoke to Tom, who had a better perspective on the situation. As they knew, no matter how tired, cranky, doubtful, or self-critical I sounded, I was too much of a team player ever to throw in the towel.

But mine wasn’t the only opinion that mattered. Somehow word circulated among the Jenny Craig executives that I wasn’t going to be ready for the shoot. Even though I didn’t learn of this until later, I understood. They had a lot riding on this new campaign. Nervous, they called Christopher, who assured them that his star pupil would be ready.

Just over a week before the shoot, I finally broke the 130-pound mark. I got on the scale that morning and weighed 128 and change. The next day I was another pound lighter. It felt like I’d witnessed a miracle. I had no idea why; I hadn’t done anything different. I’d just plugged away. Tom agreed. When he saw me trying on bikinis, he uttered a single word—“Wow.”

A few days later, I was down three more pounds. This time I knew the reason. It had been water my body held on to while I was on my period. I laughingly hit myself on the side of my head as I got off the scale. Of course! Cue the
Rocky
music. I was going to do it.

Then the day got better. Nancy brought over a brand of bikini that I actually thought looked good on me. It was a basic, sporty Body Glove. I came out of the bedroom with a smile. Tom nodded.

“Yum,” he said.

“Yum?” I replied. “How about
Thank God
!”

On Friday, three days before I left for Palm Springs, where the
commercial was being shot, Christopher met with the director and his crew. The director told Christopher that he’d recently worked on a video with Madonna. He said that she had been in impossibly good shape, absolutely ripped, and he didn’t want me to look like that. Given previous concerns only a few days earlier about whether I’d be ready, that was pretty funny.

“What did you tell him?” I asked Christopher when he told me about the meeting.

He laughed.

“I said, ‘Okay, dude, I promise you Valerie Bertinelli will not look like Madonna.’ ”

I spent the weekend before the shoot at home by myself. Wolfie was with his dad, and Tom visited his children in Arizona. It was a good thing I was alone. I was able to focus on my workouts, the few errands I needed to run, and quiet time to keep my head in a calm place. On Sunday, I had a final fitting, and it went as everyone hoped. Even I was happy with the way I looked. I was ready.

On the day before the shoot, Christopher and I drove to the Parker Hotel in Palm Springs. Along the way, I checked in with Wolfie, who was at his dad’s, and spoke to Tom, who was driving in from Arizona. My parents were also making their way to the Parker for a commercial that my mom was doing with Tom and me after I finished in the bikini.

Now that the big event was finally here, I was in a positive mindset. I felt good about all the hours I had put in; it was like being ready for a big game. Christopher and I reminisced about my progress over the months we had trained together. He noted that running and working out had become a part of my life, not something I only did for the photo shoot. I didn’t disagree.

For much of the drive, I was surprisingly mellow. I stayed quiet and confident in my head and pictured myself sipping celebratory champagne when we were finished, though I didn’t want to get too far ahead of myself.

At the hotel, I waited briefly for Tom to arrive, and then we walked the hotel’s lush grounds, which were bursting with spring flowers. I enjoyed the perfumed desert air. Tom praised me for being relaxed. I didn’t know if I was calm or intensely focused, but I did admit to being immensely pleased and even impressed with the shape I had gotten myself into.

“God bless Christopher,” I said.

My positive attitude earned an affectionate whoop from Tom. All the hours of sweat were worth every ounce of pain, and hopefully the complaints weren’t too much to bear. For the first time in my life, I actually liked my arms. I also liked seeing a line in my thighs from all the squats. I had done the best I could with my butt. I had a shapely body and no amount of diet or exercise could change that fact. And that’s okay. I didn’t want to look like a little boy from behind. I had curves.

I remembered back when I used to say to myself, God, if I could just stay under 150 pounds I’ll be fine. And I had trouble getting there. Now, I had planted a stake in the ground at 132, but my new goal was to live between 124 and 129. It felt normal and realistic for me, at almost forty-nine years old.

Mention of the word maintenance brought a laugh. I had maintained, and then some. I had improved. I was fit, and loved being strong and healthy. I felt like anything was possible. I could scale a mountain or run a marathon if I wanted. I had confidence in myself and my body, another new sensation for me.

I wouldn’t ever feel 100 percent at ease about being in a bikini,
not at my age, but my bikini body was attainable, not one of those scary, sculpted, impossible bodies that make you go, Why bother trying? I was comfortable in my own skin. I hoped that would show more than anything else.

After a light dinner, we went back to the room, and Jen, my spray-tan artist, came over. She had me take off all my clothes—and I mean all of them—and stand on the back patio. Then she sprayed me to within an inch of my Italian grandfather’s color. It was a bit of a thrill. I was finally naked, and the most gratifying thing about it was that it was exactly as I’d always hoped. I liked what I saw— but I felt even better.

Strangely, I had no qualms about standing buck naked outside and in almost plain view. That is if you knew where to look—or got lucky, which was possible. Only a 5-foot wall and a small, flat, square umbrella hid me from hotel guests walking across the courtyard as they returned to their room from the bar or dining room.

“Tom, I’m on the patio—naked,” I said.

“Can you be quiet, please,” he said.

“With another woman!”

Jen just laughed.

Fearful that I might provide someone with a cheap thrill, I had Tom go outside and station himself in front of the patio wall to make sure no one stopped and looked. In reality, he said hi to everyone who passed by, which caused them to stop and probably wonder who was chirping about being naked on a patio.

Finally, I gave him the all-clear sign. I shouted, “Honey, it’s okay. I’m no longer standing naked on the balcony!”

“Good to know,” he replied. “Thanks for telling
everyone
.”

I started the next day at 5 a.m. in the hotel gym, shooting B-roll of my workout for
Oprah
. For the first time in several months, I had trouble exercising. I had hit a wall mentally and physically. Nevertheless, I pushed myself and got through one more workout. There was a bright spot. I weighed a feathery 122 pounds. Tom snapped a picture of the scale.

After cleaning up, we went to the set. The commercial was being shot at a private mansion about ten minutes from the hotel. Calling it a mansion doesn’t do it justice. Situated on an acre of land at the base of one of the mountains, the sprawling home featured at least five swimming pools of different sizes and shapes. Upon our arrival, we joined everyone else and walked around in awe. It was like stepping into another reality.