Episode 27: Divorce Diet

Episode 27: Divorce Diet

Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"

When I first got separated (such a ladylike term — it should be "wrenched," or "torn," or "severed," that's more like it) all I did was eat. Cheesecake, Pop Tarts, Cap'N Crunch, all the stuff that Jeffrey hated and that I knew was bad for me went straight into my "separated" body. I guess the idea was that the bad stuff would fill me up — you know, the separated parts would theoretically all come back together because all that fat and sugar would round me out, as it were. I'm sure you can understand what I was thinking. It made a lot of sense at the time, plus I was always hungry and common sense told me food was the way to go.

That lasted for a little while, and then, for lack of a better option, and with the encouragement of Annabelle (no, we haven't totally mended the fence yet, but we're working on it) I joined a gym. I've always hated gyms. The idea of sweating in front of strangers never appealed to me (I can't imagine why) and the thought of seeing all those nubile twenty-something actress wannabes (this is Los Angeles after all) flaunting their belly rings made my own Buddha belly turn. But I went anyway, out of boredom, more than anything else, and the belief that even though I was eating everything that was put in front of me, (a little shout out to Fritos here), the working out would literally, make me a stronger person. That somehow, a treadmill was going to propel me in the direction that I needed to go.

I was thinking about this the other morning when I woke up and realized that it had been a while since I'd seen the HBPD. I don't know why I equated one with the other (although Fritos and sex, not that we've had any sex yet, somehow seem to go nicely hand in hand.) Maybe I was equating exercise with that hike we'd taken to see Pamela Anderson's castle. The truth is, I'd been a little embarrassed after the estate sale debacle, although I did end up with a snakeskin, French Provencal love seat that I am going to re-cover and put in my oh, so inviting foyer. (As a newly single woman, it is important to have a love seat that's "inviting.")

Anyhoo, I rolled out of my cavernous bed and realized that lo and behold, without knowing it I'd gone on the divorce diet and dropped well over twenty pounds. Now, I'd heard tell of such things. You know, women who have so much stress in their lives that they actually stop eating, but I'd always thought that was an urban myth perpetuated by the Weight Watchers organization. (I've tried "watching my weight," a tedious enterprise that never works. Indulging in chips and Pop Tarts, in theory at least, seems so much easier.) But apparently, myths, like certain fairy tales, have a way of coming true and there I was, falling out of my skinny jeans and laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Suddenly giddy with excitement, I immediately punched in the HBPD on speed dial. "Hey," I said, all nonchalantly, "Long time no see. What're you up to?" "Hey," he said (and I could tell he was smiling), "I'm out at the beach, staring at the kayak. Wanna come out here and go for a ride?"

Now, the divorce diet apparently does many things. It makes your skinny jeans too big. It gives you newfound confidence in your ability to act like a teenage girl. It turns you crazy enough to think you can put on a bathing suit in public. (Unlike Kathy Lee Gifford who, during a segment on menopause on the Today Show, loudly proclaimed that no one will ever see her in a bathing suit again. Go figure.) Finally, it allows you the insanity necessary to go out in the middle of the freezing cold Pacific Ocean on a kayak in a leopard print bikini. Which is what I did.

When I get out there, the HBPD is running around in board shorts and little else. He has a good body for a guy in his forties, muscle-y but not too much so, like he has more important things to do than try too hard. (I, on the other hand, start sucking my stomach in immediately. I have the leopard print bikini on underneath my jeans and sweater, but I'm not sure where I'm going with any of it.) "I've missed you," he says and I nod, a little too quickly and say something like, "Nice abs," which is obviously an absurd way to start a conversation. The HBPD looks at me sideways, kind of out from under his eyebrows. That's when I notice that he's got these red marks all over his chest and back, kind of like bad scratches, which makes the "nice abs" comment even more absurd than it was to begin with. "What happened?" I ask him and he tells me he had a crash on his skim board (the only skim I know comes in the form of tasteless milk) but he's fine, nothing that a little "R and R" won't cure. Well, I don't ask him if that "R and R" includes me, or, in fact, what his definition of "R and R" actually is (in my book it involves wine and extreme sexual activity, not necessarily in that order) but being a Kennedy cousin I realize he is referring to some kind of physical act that has more to do with the aforementioned kayak than it does with sex.

"You up for it?" he asks me, grinning (I must say, I see a little insanity in his eyes, the kind of insanity that says, I am up for anything and can't possibly get hurt doing it) and when I say, "Up for what?" he laughs and says, "The kayak? I saw dolphins out there." Well, who am I to pass up a good dolphin sighting. At the very least, the idea of being out in the middle of the ocean with the HBPD and some dolphins humping — I mean, jumping around us seems highly romantic. "I'm totally up for it," I tell him and then I look around, not sure what happens next.

"I think I've got a wet suit that'll fit you," he says but then adds, "I'm not wearing one, too much friction." Now, that word, "friction..." again, my mind goes to places it totally shouldn't but all I say is, "I'm good, I'm wearing my bathing suit," without even realizing what that actually means. (What it means is that I'm about to go out in a kayak in the leopard print bikini in front of this rocking half-naked, totally intrepid Dad. I should also point out here that it is a school day, maybe eleven a.m. or so and the kids are all learning their multiplication tables or some other useful tool while I am in the middle of this adolescent-like behavior.) "I'm all about the bikini," says the HBPD and he grabs my hand and leads me over the dune to where the kayak is resting on the sand.

In the interest of full disclosure here I should mention that when I see the kayak all I want to do is pull a one-eighty. I am terrified, and much as I want to be in a boat with this man, in the middle of the ocean with dolphins swimming around us, I also want to stay alive. Plus, I am now faced with the horrifying reality of having to take off my clothes and stand there on the beach practically stark naked in a leopard print that I am positive the nubile young actresses at the gym would say is a "What Not To Wear" fiasco. Faced with this dilemma, I start to head back up the dune. "Sorry," I say, "I forgot something," (like my sanity) but then I hear, "Where are you going?" Now, this is a question that hits home. Because the truth is, I have no idea. Where am I going? Back to the quiet, pedestrian life of a newly separated, single mom? Or forward into an ocean of possibility? With this in mind, I grit my teeth, remind myself that two c-sections or not, I'm still a looker (I got that from some Fifties movie), pull off my clothes and stand, shivering on the beach in a bathing suit that resembles little more than politically incorrect underwear.

Before I even know it, I'm paddling — hard. And the waves are pretty strong, but we're managing and my bikini seems to be holding up okay. (I'm a little worried about the wind and water, I think this particular item was really meant for the beach in St. Tropez. Not that I've been to St. Tropez lately. Or ever, frankly, but even a menopausal girl can dream.) And then there are the dolphins. "Look!" yells the HBPD and I do and it's amazing. There are four of them and they are swimming right beside us, like there's somewhere they're taking us or at the very least, somewhere they want us to go. "Do they always come this close?" I ask him, leaning into his ear so that he can hear me and he leans back against my body. "They must like you," he says, and then, laughing, "Dolphins mate for life, you know." "They should stay away from us, then," I shoot back but the import of this stays with me, and even as I say it, I regret the sarcasm cutting through the water courtesy of me.

But the HBPD doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't care. "Watch!" he yells and as he starts to turn the kayak around the dolphins breach. It's a breathtaking moment and as they jump I wish that things could just stay this way, no beginning or ending, everything suspended in midair.

"Hold your breath!" the HBPD calls out and sure enough, just as I am all into the beauty of my surroundings the dolphins cut back into the water and I am doused with ocean. Shit, I think to myself as I spit seaweed out of my mouth and feel the bikini top loosen. Now what? I look down, and wouldn't you know it, there are my boobs, unconstrained by any sort of swimming garment, flying their freak flag in the air.

The HBPD looks over his shoulder at me. "It's getting pretty sunny," he says. "Wanna head back?" "Do you?" I ask him. He grins, then looks startled as he realizes I'm putting on a little show. "Not really, but I, uh...don't want you to get burned?" I shrug, all casual like. "I'm wearing water proof sunscreen," I tell him, proudly. "All over?" he inquires, nonchalantly. Seems so unlike you." "Yeah, I'm full of surprises," I tell him. And I lean my body against his. He pauses for a moment, clearly assessing the situation. "So, you're up for more?" he says. "'Cause I can feel you shivering. Plus you're kind of naked. " "I'm not cold," I assure him, and I'm not. It's more like I'm...anticipating. "I'm not a nudist, or anything, in case you're wondering," I mention, as I retie the bathing suit. "Can we go see the dolphins, again?" I ask him. "You sure?" he asks me. "About what?" I say. "Being a nudist or wanting to find Flipper?" "Both," he says, very seriously. And that's the thing I've learned about the divorce diet. At some point the rush of Pop Tarts and Cap'N Crunch dissipates and turns into a desire to put on an ill-fitting leopard print bikini. Temptation becomes less about cheesecake and more about developing a taste for the unknown. And it always leaves you hungry for more.