Finding It: And Finally Satisfying My Hunger for Life (27 page)

Maybe it was T.M.I.—even for me. It was for Tom, who looked at Christopher, wondering what else he might know. Then he turned toward me and said, “V, starting tonight, you take the Bugg off when we go to bed.”

For years, my brother, Patrick, and his wife Stacy have been king and queen of an annual Krewe of Helios parade in Arizona, a no-holds-barred Mardi Gras celebration at the end of their cul-desac involving pickup trucks festooned with balloons, beads, cold beer, pots of spicy gumbo, and platters of insanely delicious muffuletta sandwiches. After a couple of bites and beers, I’m transported from the desert to the French Quarter.

So when I saw the Evite to their party in my e-mail, I stared at it as if clicking on it would unleash a wicked computer virus. The timing sucked. Here I was on a mission to get rid of my muffin handles and all I could think about were her muffulettas. I RSVP’d anyway.

We went to their house the night before the party. As we helped
them prepare, I showed Stacy my Bugg and explained that Tom and I planned to arrive toward the latter end of the party so that most of the food would be eaten. It was a surefire way to avoid temptation for someone who feared she had no willpower, which was my problem when I got around their Mardi Gras feast.

If there was any doubt, you only had to see me at that moment. As I gave her this lame excuse for missing half their party, I opened the silverware drawer, got out a spoon, flitted over to the stove, and began taste-testing the gumbo. Thankfully I was having only a couple of spoonsful. Previously, I wouldn’t have been satisfied until I had consumed several bowls.

I can’t say enough about Pat and Stacy’s gumbo. My favorite part is that their recipe calls for the cook to drink a beer as it’s prepared. Enough said, right?

Tom cleared his throat.

“How many weeks until you get in the bikini?” he asked.

“I’m just helping Stacy,” I said.

“Helping?”

“I’m making sure it’s good enough to serve,” I said.

My brother saw me eyeing a bottle of Blair’s 3 AM Death Sauce and said no way. Rarely does anything stand between me and a bottle of hot sauce, but thank goodness Patrick did. He saved me from getting into major trouble. The next day I would see their friend Dave lick the cork from the Death Sauce bottle on a dare— within seconds his forehead was covered in sweat.

“You saved my life,” I said, jokingly.

Patrick didn’t crack a smile.

“Val, it’s even worse when it comes out,” he said.

The highlight of arriving the day before to help them get ready came when I pulled up a chair to watch Stacy make her famous
muffulettas. With my mouth watering, I was in lust as she brought out the sliced turkey, ham, and provolone cheese; then a large, hard salami; and then green and black olives; a dozen cloves of garlic; and a large jar of Italian giardiniera mix. At that point, I couldn’t take it anymore. I told Tom to get me home.

As we were about to leave, I overheard Stacy telling my brother that their food processor was relatively small. I stopped by the front door.

“Guys, you’ve done this long enough to know that size doesn’t matter,” I said in a loud voice. “It’s all about how you use the equipment you have.”

I was one to talk. A few days later, after surviving Mardi Gras, I was back home, having my measurements taken. While my friend Kathy wrapped a tape measure around me, I stood in my kitchen with my arms raised and my inhibitions lowered. In the past, this would have been a scary proposition. In fact, I didn’t know my exact measurements.

But I was participating in New York Fashion Week’s annual Red Dress event, a charity show that raises awareness of heart disease as the leading killer of women and former
Project Runway
winner Christian Siriano was making a dress specially for me and needed my vital statistics. He he asked me to e-mail him my measurements. He said it casually, as if it was no big deal. And maybe it wasn’t—to him. But I was, like, Hello, that’s a scary thought— both taking my measurements and then putting them on the Internet. I did it, though, and without any second-guessing of the numbers. What was the big deal? I was doing a fashion show, not a centerfold.

Once in New York, I met with Christian and tried on the
dress. A camera crew from
Rachael Ray
followed me through the fitting. They captured my surprise when I saw that Christian had designed a strapless gown, a style that I had always avoided. Now, however, I was actually excited about breaking new ground for me in a fashion sense, and showing off my arms.

The belt Christian had made to go around my waist didn’t fit. It was too small, because there were so many layers of fabric in the dress that they added another inch around the middle. I turned to the camera, winced, and said, “I didn’t lie about my measurements. I swear.”

I wore jeans and a T-shirt to rehearsals in the Bryant Park tent. As an actor, I know the benefits of rehearsal, but I thought that walking down the runway was a piece of cake and maybe a waste of time—that is until I heard someone mention that the point is to do it in high heels. I looked down at my feet. I had on Ugg boots. My heels were back in my hotel room. Oh, well, I wasn’t trying to be Heidi Klum. I just wanted to do my part for the charity.

As it turned out, I did fine. I didn’t fall, I smiled, and hopefully people thought Christian’s dress was beautiful. Until I had reached the end of the runway, turned around, and begun walking back, I didn’t realize that I was on the jumbo-sized screen. Of course, the view was of me walking away. In other words, all I saw was my ass.

Who ever sees that view of herself? I didn’t know whether to stop, shriek, or run. What did I do? I reached around and grabbed my rear with both hands. I got a big laugh—and that made me feel great.

Back home, however, I sank into a funk. I had waltzed out of the glitzy part of my life and into a hornet’s nest of real-life issues and
obligations that needed my attention. Running on fumes and way too tired for my own good, I had been trying to do too much and had been saying yes to too many requests. Then I saw photographs of myself from the fashion show and thought I looked like a ton of lard compared to some of the other women who had participated. Suddenly, I was not myself.

None of the things that usually calmed me down worked. Even though I knew that the women to whom I was comparing myself had different body types, that some may have been unnaturally thin or unhealthy, it didn’t matter.

My workouts suffered. Christopher knew that something was wrong, but I didn’t feel like opening up to him.

Everyone goes through times when you feel out of sorts, or feel that the world is making too many demands and you just want to shut the door, be left alone, and feel sorry for yourself. I was having one of those times. I was angry, frustrated, tired, and I don’t even know what all else.

It all came to a head one day when I attempted to install a hook in my closet where I wanted to hang my bathrobe, missed the nail, and hammered my thumb. I didn’t laugh the way I had at Christmas when Tom had hammered his thumb while hanging lights outside. I had chided him then: the nail was right there. How could he possibly miss it?

For the answer, I didn’t have to look any farther than my throbbing black-and-blue thumb. I had hit it because I was looking elsewhere, not at the nail. Likewise, I was off in the rest of my life because I wasn’t looking at issues that I needed to address, including a miscommunication with my brother Patrick; a problem with Wolfie, who had ditched me for his dad after I had lectured
him about not performing to expectations in some of his classes; and the continuing, pressing challenge of getting my body into a bikini.

I now had slightly less than a month to go and didn’t feel anywhere near ready. I was really feeling the pressure now and was worried about the possibility of failure, which meant possibly disappointing a number of people, including myself.

At another time I might have shut myself in the house, not answered the phone, and let even the best-laid plans fall apart. But not now. Having made real progress over the past year of so-called maintenance, I recognized that I was letting the stress get to me and, in effect, cause all these different snags in my life. Instead of doing nothing, which would have been self-sabotage, I took action.

I called my brother; I reminded Wolfie via a text message that he had a mother who loved him whether he got an A in math or a C; and I had a long pep talk with Christopher, which got me back in sync. As I do frequently, I reminded myself that the maddeningly glorious imperfection of being merely human was the best that I could do in this lifetime.

In other words, sometimes you lose a sock in the dryer and sometimes you find it and make a pair. I could handle that reality. I knew it was better to deal with problems than let them linger.

Photos of me are always going to bug me, but I had to get over it and quit comparing myself to other women. There would always be someone who was happier, more together, richer, prettier, thinner, fitter, smarter, or more fabulous—and that didn’t matter.

In the end, I decided to focus on my goals, watch my aim, and simply try to be the best version of me that I could be any given day.