Getting to Happy Read Free Page A

fish that was headed for a hot skillet gave me the heebie-jeebies. Did I complain? No, I did not. I tried to do what made my husband happy.
    Over the years, Isaac stopped showing interest in what I felt or what I did. I had to bribe him to go to or do anything that didn’t have an outcome. Whenever I wanted to talk about my stories, he always seemed to have the remote in his hand. I’m tired of not feeling respected. Since he’s become a successful entrepreneur, Isaac’s arrogance has pierced right through his beauty, which is why I don’t like him.
    Make no mistake, I still love Isaac. I haven’t been in love with him for quite some time. It’s not an easy thing to admit. I’m not one of those women who feels I need a man to complete me. I also don’t think there’s just one person in the world meant for you. Sometimes you luck up and sometimes your luck runs out. I’m beginning to wonder if a good marriage is even possible. What I do know is I’m tired of feeling navy blue when I have a right to feel lemon yellow.
    Ever since I turned fifty I’ve become more aware of the passage of time and what I’m doing with it. If I dropped dead today, what legacy would I leave? Would I have done a lot of the things I wanted to do? Seen some of the places I wanted to see? And would I—if I took a few minutes to think about it—feel as if the time I was blessed with was well spent or had I just bullshitted my way through it?
    Even though I have an interesting job, it still feels like I should be doing more. All I ever wanted was to do something with my life that would have a positive impact on other people. To do something to make us look in the mirror or slow down long enough to see what our behavior really says about us. Mostly about our inhumanity, since it leaves red marks. I believe the only way to evaluate how we’re living is how we’re not living.
    This is why I’m on a mission to start doing things that make me feel good. I’ve made a vow to start eating healthier and exercising on a regular basis because I know better. I’m twenty-five pounds away from being fat. I don’t want to have to start buying all my clothes in Encore at Nordstrom’s. My goal is to be fit at fifty-two and sixty-two and seventy-two. I want to feel better than I look. I’m not trying to be a middle-aged centerfold, I just want to look at myself naked and not be disgusted. It may sound naïve, but I always thought as you got older the quality of your life would improve, that things would be smoother, calmer, and you could finally exhale.
    If only.
    I’d probably be in the nuthouse if it weren’t for my girlfriends: Bernadine, Robin and Gloria. Fifteen years ago, we thought we were hot shit. I was thirty-six and had just moved here from Denver, where I’d been a publicist for the gas company. Thrill thrill. Bernadine and her then husband, John, talked me into moving here after a visit, when a position in PR opened up at a local television station. The three of us went to Boston University together. I was her bridesmaid. She worked in finance for a real estate developer, had become a C.P.A. She introduced me to Gloria, a single parent who had her own hair salon. And Robin: Miss Congeniality. She worked in an executive capacity at an insurance company but was still on the verge of becoming a slut. She was and still is a hoot.
    After years of our being casualties of love, Gloria is the only one who’s happily married. Times have certainly changed. We’re all busy. We don’t hang out like we used to, don’t run our mouths on the phone half the night the way we used to, don’t gossip about each other the way we used to. We send e-mail or text. Who can be bothered reaching out all day long like teenagers? Forget about happy hour. (Do they still have them?) We haven’t been drunk since I999. Haven’t set foot in a nightclub since Rick James had his last hit. We dance at home. Apparently, we’re too damn old to have fun in public