Lisa Scottoline - Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog - The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman

I threw out the change-the-world draft and wrote instead that the graduates should live in the moment. That they don’t know how many moments are allotted to them, in this, their one and only life. That all of the blessings of this earth-as well as their very senses and the regular beat of their heart-aren’t guaranteed to anyone. That interviewers will ask them where they think they’ll be in five years, but life isn’t to be lived in five-year stretches.

Life is moments.

And smells, and tastes, and the sight of your daughter’s face. Or the sound of a kitten’s purr.

So the only time is now.

That they call it commencement day because it’s the beginning of life after college. But the real truth is, every day of life is commencement day.

Every day is a new day in which we wake up and choose how to live. Whether it’s to apply for a job or to ask somebody out on a date. Or buy a sweater or save for a car. Or sell your house and find a better one. Or fall in love. That we choose every action in every day of our lives.

And I told them, and myself, to rejoice in the first of this string of commencement days. We don’t have to know what’s next. We shouldn’t think about next now. Be right where you are, in the present, in this moment.

Your moment.

Just be. And see and hear and smell. Because we are all of us so very lucky to begin again, every day.

Happy Commencement Day today.

And tomorrow, too.

As I get older, I’m figuring out that the reason people talk about their ailments is that they’re sharing useful medical information. At least, this is the rationalization that works best for me, because while conversations about cholesterol and lower back pain used to bore me to tears, now all I want to talk about is cholesterol and lower back pain.

In the interests of full disclosure, I should say that I don’t have lower back pain, but I hope to someday, so I can be like everybody else and join the national conversation. I do, however, have high cholesterol, which is why I’m on Lipitor, and I’d be happy to tell you about that, should you ask. In the meantime, kindly permit this story on a different medical subject.

Here’s what happened.

Daughter Francesca came home from college and suggested that we join a gym, which is exactly the problem with educating your child. They get dangerous new ideas. Be forewarned.

But I went along with it, thinking it would be fun. Now, you should know that I’m no slouch in the physical department. I walk the dogs two miles a day, ride Buddy the Pony twice a week, and swear by the South Beach Diet. To be honest, I thought I had maybe five pounds to lose. By the way, you may have heard about that study in which women were asked if they’d rather lose five pounds or gain five IQ points. You know which they chose?

The five pounds.

I would, too. In fact, I would kill to lose five pounds. I’m pretty sure it would be justifiable homicide, at least if I got a woman judge.

Anyway, to get to the point, Francesca and I checked out the gyms in the neighborhood, which was fun. She asked about trainers, and I asked about defibrillators.

It may not be a good idea to join a gym with your kid. You look for different things. She wants treadmills, and you want CPR.

She’s trying to look hot, and you’re trying not to die.

Long story short, we joined the gym that gave us three free sessions with a trainer, and then we went for our first session. We started by warming up on the elliptical machines, watching Judge Judy on the big TVs, and yapping away. Then we met our trainer, a manchild with biceps that could cut hard cheese. I liked him until he told us it was time for our “evaluation,” which included me holding a white plastic gadget that measured my body fat.

You wanna know?

Thirty-one percent.

I stopped having fun immediately. There had to be some mistake. My weight was in reasonable control, at least according to my bathroom scale, which always gives me good reviews. And I’ve been strict on my diet, if you don’t count the margaritas.

Thirty-one percent body fat?

How did that happen? And when?

I considered the implications. A third of me was fat. I wondered if it was the top third or the bottom. Answer: It’s the middle, stupid.

I couldn’t believe it. How can you be not-that-overweight and have thirty-one percent body fat?

I’m guessing this is because of my age, which is really unfair. Why do we have to pay so high a price for sneaking a piece of chocolate now and then? The punishment doesn’t fit the crime. I was so bummed that if I’d been home, I would have gone straight to the refrigerator.

But I was at the gym, so I lifted every weight the trainer gave me. I yanked every rope, flopped around on every beach ball, and curled muscles I’d sooner have left straight. I did everything but claw my thighs off in public.

And, of course, I signed up in for ten more sessions, to begin after the free ones ended. I didn’t care what it cost. If I could have done all ten sessions on the spot, I would have done that, too.

Of course, you know what happened next.

The next day I could barely walk, sit, or drive. It hurt to laugh and breathe. It did not hurt to eat. It never hurts to eat. Not until later.

I’m thinking that maybe I should have taken the extra five IQ points.

Then I could figure out how to lose five pounds without going to the gym.

It’s the time of year when Mother Mary comes to visit, and drama follows.

This time it begins as soon as I picked her up at the airport. Brother Frank wasn’t able to make the trip with her, so he had ordered a wheelchair to fetch her from the gate. She can walk, but he wanted to make sure she was able to find her way out of Concourse A, and I thought that was a good idea.

So I waited for her at the end of the concourse, expecting to see her emerge in the wheelchair, but no dice. Easily three hundred people walked by me on their way out of the concourse, all of them tan and superhot, which I have learned is the Miami Express. Finally, at the tail end of the photogenic horde came Mother Mary, all four feet eleven of her, in her oversized white South Beach T-shirt and white Capri pants. She walked very slowly, watching every step to make sure she didn’t fall, so her head was downcast, showing a gray-white whorl at her crown. Right behind her was an exasperated airlines employee, pushing an empty wheelchair.

I didn’t understand. “Mom, why aren’t you in the wheelchair?”

“What did you say?” She cupped a hand to her ear.

“The wheelchair, behind you.”