I'm Not Gonna Lie (8 page)

I'VE
been blessed to have accomplished a few things in my life, but when people ask me, “What's your number one achievement?” I always say, “That's easy. My incredible daughter, Mayan.”

She's the best thing that ever happened to me. Everything else is in second place.

And believe me, I'm glad I became a father in my thirties, because when you're over fifty, having a kid will age you rapidly.

That's the last thing you need—something that makes you older faster.

If you're over fifty and you get into a serious relationship with a younger woman, the question of having kids will come up. It's inevitable. And you won't like it. One night you'll be in bed minding your own business, watching TV or sorting through your golf tees, and your girlfriend, wearing something slinky and sexy, will cuddle up next to you and very casually start having “the conversation.” It usually begins with her gently touching her finger to your lip or nibbling on your ear, and then she'll say something like, “I was just thinking about how wonderful you are and how lucky I am. . . .”

Uh-oh.

Get ready.

Here it comes.

Pretty soon you'll hear something like, “I was wondering . . .” and then you'll zone out. Most of what she says after that will buzz right by you, but a few key phrases will stick, like, “My biological clock is ticking,” and, “Such gorgeous kids together,” and, “I'll do all the heavy lifting,” and the absolute worst, “You'll make an amazing daddy.”

While she's making her pitch, you'll be having a conversation with yourself. You'll be thinking, “Do I want a kid after fifty?” and phrases will start flying around in your head, like, “Having a heart attack playing catch,” “Say good-bye to nooners,” “A half a million bucks for private school, cash, before taxes,
cash,
” and, the killer, “I'll be
seventy-five
when the kid graduates college; I hope I recognize her.”

I knew a guy in his fifties, Marco, whose twenty-something wife, Terri, snuggled up to him one night and started having the “the kid conversation.” Marco already had grown kids. Terri purred and cooed and nibbled and Marco felt his pulse race, but not because of the purring and cooing and nibbling. He was starting to freak out about having another kid.

“Listen, I love you,” Marco said to Terri. “I want to be with you, but I've already had kids. I really don't want to have a baby.”

“You won't have to do anything except get me pregnant,” Terri said. “That's it. That's all I ask. Get me pregnant and you're done.”

That didn't sound so bad to Marco.

“That's it?” Marco said. “Hit it and run?”

“That's it,” Terri said.

“Well, I'd be willing to do a bare minimum. You know, like make a cameo appearance in a movie.”

“Okay, how's this? I want to be completely honest and realistic. What if I set a limit for how much time you have to spend with her and I absolutely stick to it? How about you agree to be with her for two hours a day?”

Marco mulled this over. “Two hours a day? And I'm done?”

“I promise. After two hours, you hand the baby over to me, and you're done until the next day.”

“I'm gonna hold you to that,” Marco said.

And he did.

His daughter is four years old now.

“I spend two hours a day with her and then my daughter and Terri know that Daddy's tired,” Marco told me. “I come home. I roll around with the kid. We spend a quality couple of hours and then I hand her over to Terri.”

This arrangement sounded crazy to me. I didn't get it. It sounded both too radical and too good to be true, at least for someone over fifty who didn't want another kid.

“Run this by me one more time,” I said to Marco. “You just hand the kid over? How does that work?”

“Easy. I say, ‘Here, Ter, take her.' Most of the time I stick around, but sometimes, if I want some peace and quiet, I go to the condo.”

“I thought you got rid of the condo when you got married. You said it was too small.”

“No. I kept the condo. It's way too small for me, Terri, and the baby. But it's perfect for me alone.”

I've heard of separate bedrooms, or a man cave in the basement or out in the garage, but Marco arranged to have separate
houses
. Or in his case, a house and a condo.

“This is kind of like
Mad Men,
” I said. “You got the big house in the suburbs and the apartment in the city.”

“Yeah. A crash pad.”

“I have to admit,” I said, “it sounds pretty good.”

“Oh, no,” Marco said. “It's great.”

This would never work for me. I couldn't have two totally separate places to live. And I could never have a kid at my age. I'm too old, too vain, too set in my ways, and did I mention too
old
? I don't want my kid to look at me and say, “Grandpa.” Kids can see the difference between young and old. They can pick out an old person. You're right in front of him. Normally a kid's field of vision fills up with young faces—his friends, his parents, his teachers, his friends' parents. My kid would see all that and one old, wrinkled face. Mine.

No.

I don't want that.

And I don't want his friends to say, “I really enjoyed playing with Grandpa George. He's cool, for an old person. He played with us for almost five minutes before he started breathing heavy and holding his side.”

No. I'm not gonna do that.

I've done the math. If I have a kid when I'm fifty-three, by the time the kid graduates high school, I'll be seventy-one.

Seventy-one?

I can't make that guarantee. I may not live that long.

You know when somebody says, “Hey, it has a lifetime guarantee”? That doesn't mean anything anymore. It used to be a big deal. If you bought a coffeemaker and it came with a lifetime guarantee and then it broke, you could take it back and the store would give you a new one.

I can't offer my kid anything close to that. For all I know, my lifetime guarantee means four months.

And when you have a kid, time speeds up. You age faster.

One day I was having a drink with some guys after a round of golf, and this one guy pulled out a picture of his family—him, his wife, and his two little kids. The guy was beaming, happy as hell. He couldn't wait to show us this picture.

Here's what I saw:

Two cute little kids, an attractive young woman in her late twenties or early thirties, and this decrepit old dude who looked like the picture of Dorian Gray. His skin was pasty and wrinkled, his hair was thin and sparse and looked glued to his bald head, and his earlobes hung down to his shoulders. They looked like mud flaps. He seemed so out of place with this vibrant, young family. He didn't fit.

The picture gave me the creeps.

I don't want people taking that picture of me. And if I did have that picture in my wallet because my wife forced me to carry it around, I sure as hell wouldn't show it to anybody. Or I'd Photoshop George Clooney's head over mine.

I can't see myself doing even the most basic things, like getting the kid dressed. I throw my back out putting on my own socks. I pull a muscle sleeping. What's gonna happen when I try to pull on the kid's pants or tie his shoes or get him into a shirt? I'll be at the chiropractor for weeks.

And then to get the kid to do anything, you gotta raise your voice sometimes. You know there's gonna be yelling and push back. Then the kid will cry and you'll have to yell louder. Hey, I'm already old. Sounds bother me. Recently, I went to see the band Rush in concert at the Nokia Theatre in L.A. The guys are friends of mine, so I hung out with them in their dressing room before the show. As they were about to go on, Alex Lifeson said to me, “Hey, man, you want earplugs?” I laughed and said, “Really? Do I look that old? No, thank you.” So, I listened to them play bareback, sans earplugs. My ears rang for a week. It felt like somebody whacked me on the head with a crowbar. I learned some valuable advice that night:

If it's too loud, you're too old.

So, clearly, I've become sensitive to certain sounds.

Like a kid crying. I can see myself out at the park or at a game and people start to yell at me because I'm yelling at the kid and the kid's crying, and then somebody says, “Hey, can you shut that kid up?” I hate when a dog barks next door. How will I deal with a kid crying nonstop in my own house?

Having a kid will make you older instantly. It will not be a slow build. It will happen, bam, just like that, like a bullet to the head. You'd better psych yourself up, because as soon as the kid's old enough to walk and move on his own, you're gonna be dragging your ass to all these stupid kid places. These are places designed for kids and parents who are much younger than you and in much better shape. I'm talking about places such as Gymboree, and Karate Kids, and those insane birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese's. That place is a nightmare. My head is pounding just thinking about all those screaming kids in there. And without a doubt, you'll be the oldest person in there. People will come up to you and say, “Excuse me, are you the owner?”

Now, take a moment and think about the
parents
of these kids. Yes. Your kid's friends'
parents.
Again, do the math. Let's say you're fifty-eight and you have a five-year-old kid. Look around Chuck E. Cheese and check out the parents. They're all twenty-seven. You know how old you are? You could be
their
parents. Some dude is dragging his kid around Chuck E. Cheese's and you could be his father. But, no, you have to worry about his kid shoving your kid's face into a pizza. It's wrong and it's a complete pain in the ass.

To me, this whole having a kid after you turn fifty is like a wrestling match.

You're in the ring with your opponent. You're grabbing, you're grappling, and you quickly start to lose your leverage. Your opponent squirms out of your grasp, gains the advantage, and gets into position above you. That's it. You're done. The end. Because once you lose your leverage, you are at the mercy of the person who's on top. And you know what's on top?

Age.

All I can hear is that big clock ticking.

Tick, tick, tick.

Every day is another tick.

The clock is running out, dude.

You can do your best. You can chase after your kid in the park until your breath gives out and you're sucking wind and your side starts to stab with pain and feels as if it's about to split open. You can scream at your kid to stop shoving pencils up his nose until all you hear is the sound of your own voice screaming and you think your head is going to explode. You can try to deal with all the best intentions but you can't avoid this—

Tick, tick, tick.

Yes, when you have a kid after fifty, life is a wrestling match.

And you're about to get pinned.

IT'S
important to stay fit at any age, but you really have to watch yourself after fifty. Once you hit that number, you start to go downhill fast. Let's be honest: Our bodies are not built to last. And after fifty? Damn. When I wake up and peruse my body, I'm always amazed at what I see.

“Who the hell is that? Is that really me? Is that what I look like? What the hell happened? Where did that twenty-year-old go? Who is that old guy staring back at me?”

The first thing I do every morning is check myself in the mirror. I want to see how much I've aged in the middle of the night. I can tell by looking at my hair. If it looks better than it looked when I went to bed, fuller than I remember, then I know I've held off the downhill slide a little bit longer and it's gonna be a good day. Then, feeling as if I dodged a bullet, I take my first shower of the day.

By the way, you may have thought that the first thing I do every morning is take a piss, but I've already been up four times in the middle of the night. And, trust me, those four trips to the bathroom have not been any picnic.

Let me start by saying that I love pajamas. I collect them. Pajama bottoms, to be exact. I have accumulated twenty or thirty really nice pajama bottoms in all different patterns and colors—red, white, and blue; dark green; purple; purple and gray; stripes; solids; flannels; all kinds—because when I was a kid, I never slept in pajamas. We couldn't afford them. In the winter I slept in my jeans, and in the summer I slept in my underwear. I didn't like sleeping in my jeans, because my legs would sweat no matter the temperature and I would stick to the denim. It would be like sleeping in a thick, heavy, stiff sack. But I
hated
sleeping in my underwear. I was a restless sleeper, and I would toss and turn and get all tangled up. I'd wake up with both my legs jammed into one leg hole. Felt unbelievably weird and uncomfortable. I also looked like a bell with my legs sticking out together as the clapper. I vowed that if I ever made any money, I'd buy myself really comfortable pajamas.

Here's how much I love pajamas:

I want to be buried in them.

Why not?

People say death is like sleeping, right? That doesn't sound bad. I love to sleep. And if I'm gonna be sleeping for all eternity, I'm wearing pajamas. I think funeral directors agree with me, because they always put a pillow in the casket. So forget the stiff black suit that they put on the stiff. And the uncomfortable dress shoes. I want to wear my pajamas and my slippers.

I'm so happy that I wear pajamas to bed that I resent getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I just want to stay snug under the covers. I've actually considered keeping one of those little bottles that the hospital puts right by the side of the bed, just in case. Then when I got the urge in the middle of the night, all I would have to do is roll over.

In the meantime, I hit the head the way most normal men over the age of fifty do—every couple of hours, like clockwork. I always keep an extra pair of pajama bottoms handy, though, just in case during one of my bathroom runs I accidentally dribble a little pee onto my pajama bottoms. It can happen. In that case, I swap out my old pajamas and pull on the spare pair. No big deal. I've learned to do this in the blink of an eye. It's like changing the tires at NASCAR, except I'm a pit crew of one.

I've also learned to let your dreams be your cue. Doing this can save a two a.m. pajama-bottom swap-out. If you find yourself suddenly lost in a lovely dream in which you're wading in a beautiful warm stream, so warm and soothing that you can actually
feel
the water, force yourself to wake up, because you're about to ruin that really expensive pair of flannel pajamas that you bought at Barneys. Yes, that stream is about to overflow into your pants. I guess that's why they call these the golden years. I used to think the name came from Greek mythology and the ages of man. No. It doesn't. These are the golden years because there's a real good chance you'll be peeing in your pants.

So, back to the morning routine. You've peed, checked yourself in the mirror, and it's time to step into the shower. I find that first shower exhilarating. I take my time, scrub myself, and enjoy the heat of the wet bristles of water softly pummeling my body. Now, a very important pointer:

Everybody should have a robe. Doesn't matter how old or young you are, you need a robe. If you're young, then you can pretend you're hiding something wonderful. A surprise. A gift. Even if you know what the gift is, it's always better to wrap it up. Much more exciting that way.

If you're over fifty, don't worry about giving anybody a gift. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm now at the age when I look better clothed than naked. So, definitely, keep your body wrapped up. And keep a robe close. You don't want to have to walk across a room to get to your robe. You do not want to take the chance that you will see yourself naked. In fact, stay in the shower long enough for every mirror in the bathroom to steam up so you don't accidentally catch a peek at yourself. This advice is worth repeating:

Keep a robe close.

I keep my robe right outside the shower. All I do is reach out and grab it. No strain, no fumbling. I even double-check that my robe is in go position the night before. I take no chances.

Sometimes when I scrub myself with soap, I close my eyes and I think, “Why did I close my eyes? I don't have any soap in my eyes.”
Then I remember: I don't want to see myself. That's why I closed my eyes—to protect myself. Listen, this is a fact: Guys chase boobs their whole lives. If you live long enough, you'll get the ones you've always wanted. Except they're on you. I know guys who say, “I don't like big boobs. I like them smaller, just about a handful.” Well, wait around. You'll get 'em.

Keeping yourself in shape is really important, but you have to be careful what activities you do, what sports you play, what type of exercise you choose. When you're in your twenties, you feel invincible. You never get hurt unless you actually do something to get yourself hurt, because in your mind, you're still in high school. You play soccer, or hockey, or basketball, or hardball. Some guys even drag their wives or girlfriends along to watch them. Believe me, they don't want to be there, and when you're married for a few more years, they will make you pay.

When guys hit their thirties, they keep playing the same sports that they should've given up ten years earlier, but now their bodies have started to let them down. A lot of dudes keep playing basketball through their thirties and into their forties. They're playing with fire. All of a sudden—
rrriip
—all these guys tear their Achilles, which is God's way of telling you to sit the hell down and choose another activity. Golf. Or pool. Or craps.

When you pass fifty, you hurt yourself without doing anything. You pull muscles and tear tendons while you sleep. I woke up one morning, and I couldn't move. I blamed the mattress. It had to be the mattress, because I honestly didn't do anything. All I did was sleep. The only thing I could come up with was that the mattress messed me up. I couldn't accept that maybe I pulled a muscle changing position on my pillow.

A couple of months ago, I decided that I had to do something to get in better shape. I play golf, I stretch, and I'm pretty flexible, but I needed to add some aerobic exercise to build up my wind and strengthen my heart. Plus I was worried about the bad genes in my family. My grandmother had heart issues in her forties. I realize that part of her problem was both cultural and the time we lived in. In her experience, nobody joined a gym and nobody cared what they ate. My grandmother lived on a diet of lard, butter, pork, beans, and cheese. Salad? There were no salads. Nobody had heard of a salad. It was like an exotic food, or something you could get only in a French restaurant.

My grandmother tried to be weight conscious, but she didn't work out or walk or run or do any form of exercise. I remember one day, when I was around eleven, she came home with a box. She carried this thing into the house and set it up in the middle of the living room. She said, “This is a sweatbox. Very expensive. It's good for you. Don't touch it.”

She left the room and I circled the thing like it was some strange, magical creature. I reached out and rubbed the side for one second, then drew my hand back immediately as if I'd been burned. A couple minutes later my grandmother came back in wearing a bathing suit. She had a towel draped around her neck. She opened one of the sides of the box, stepped inside, closed the box around her, hit a switch somewhere, and turned the hot box on. The box hummed. I stood riveted, watching the sweat start to bead up on her forehead. She closed her eyes and patted her forehead with the towel. Then she opened her eyes and saw me staring at her.

“What now? Don't you have something to do? Don't just stand there. Go play. I'm exercising.”

I guess my grandmother didn't lose any weight, because when I came home from school about a week later, the sweatbox was gone. But my grandmother didn't give up. She was determined to lose weight. One day I found her rummaging through the kitchen cabinets.

“I gotta lose weight,” she mumbled.

“What happened to the hot box?”

“I junked it. No-good piece-of-crap ripoff.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Not your problem. Ah. Here it is.” She pulled out a large black plastic bag, the kind you fill up with leaves when you rake the lawn. “I'm gonna put on a plastic bag, because I gotta lose some weight. This is gonna work.”

She cut a hole at the top of the bag for her head and two holes on the sides for her arms. She wriggled the bag over her head, yanked it down over her body, and lashed the middle with a belt. “What now? What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” I said. I couldn't stop staring at her wearing the Hefty bag.

“Close your mouth. This is not your problem. But if you don't stop staring, it'll be your problem.”

I don't remember how long she wore the plastic bag. Felt like a month or more. Every morning she'd slip the thing on while she did all her work around the house—housework, cooking, cleaning—wearing that plastic bag like it was a dress. Whenever she moved, you'd hear this annoying crinkling sound throughout the house—
vwwsh, vwwsh, vwwsh
. Finally, she gave up on the plastic-bag dress and started wearing Saran Wrap under her clothes, which is something personal trainers recommend today when you do crunches or sit-ups, to help you sweat off pounds and tighten your abs. When it came to Saran Wrap around your waist, my grandmother was ahead of her time. But I never saw her do crunches, and I don't think she lost much weight.

I'm not one for joining a gym or fitness center. To me, those places seem like meat markets—nightclubs with less clothes. When you're over fifty, you really don't fit in. You sit on the bench in the locker room. You start to get undressed. You peel off your T-shirt and suddenly you experience the dreaded “one-hair phenomenon.” You've got one hair coming out of your arm, one coming out of your wrist, one out of your shoulder, and, worst of all, one long hair popping out next to your nipple. You're not in the best shape anyway, which is what got you there in the first place, so the one-hair phenomenon is about the last thing you need. And then you sneak a glance at the guy getting dressed next to you. He's young, confident, and completely ripped, and you say to yourself, “Why am I here?”

Which is why I started walking the stairs.

I live in a three-level house in the Hollywood Hills—an upstairs with the bedrooms; a downstairs with the living room, dining room, and kitchen; and a lower level with a guesthouse. One day I went down to the guesthouse and I happened to look up at the flight of stairs that led from where I was, the bottom to the top—guesthouse to upstairs—and I estimated that I had at least fifty stairs inside my house. Suddenly I had an epiphany.

I could get in shape right here, in my own house, on my own time, for free. I wouldn't have to go to a gym that was really a meat market. I wouldn't have to hire a trainer who would make me stick Saran Wrap under my shirt while he pinned my legs down as I did crunches. I wouldn't have to stare at a bunch of hard bodies in some workout video engaged in soft porn, pretending they were exercising.

I would simply walk up and down the stairs in my house five times a day. I didn't need a membership or any equipment. All I needed was a pair of decent tennis shoes.

I'd already come to peace with the idea that when you work out after you turn fifty, you're just fixing what's inside. I came to that conclusion several years ago, when I discovered that I could lift weights like a maniac every day for hours and my body would look exactly the same. As soon as I figured that out, I stopped lifting weights. Now the best I can hope for from working out is that my doctor will look at my blood panel and lower my dose of Lipitor. “Oh, my God, look at you. You must be working out. I'm gonna reduce your Norvasc to ten milligrams.”

That's your victory. That's your winning the hundred-yard dash, sinking the game-winning three, hitting your walk-off home run. “George, wow, your cholesterol level has dropped to one eighty. Oh, my
gosh
. What have you been doing? I'm so proud of you.”

Let's be clear: Stairs are no piece of cake. In fact, after fifty, stairs are a huge, annoying problem. When you're twenty, you don't think twice about climbing stairs. You don't even walk; you run up, taking two stairs at a time. You race your buddies to the top. Now if I go to an important meeting and the elevator's out, I say, “Great, well, I'll just call the dude and tell him I was here but the elevator was out. Sorry.”

So I changed into my workout clothes, put on my tennis shoes, laced them up, stretched a little bit, got good and loose, and then I hit the stairs. “Five times,” I told myself, “five times is my minimum. I'll do five reps today, then build up. By the end of the week, I'll get to my goal, ten reps, and then I'll see how much more I want to do from there. I know I want to walk the stairs for at least forty-five minutes, then get to an hour.”