The following excerpt from Valerie Bertinelli's new book, "Finding It -- and Satisfying My Hunger for Life Without Opening the Fridge," a follow-up to her memoir "Losing It -- and Gaining My Life Back One Pound at a Time," comes courtesy of Simon & Schuster publishers.
The Sex Talk
The only time I enjoyed being fat was when I was pregnant. I weighed nearly 180 pounds, and I was in heaven. As I ate Italian subs that my mom made to tide me over between meals, I would smile at the thought of the miracle of bringing a life into this world, a life that I would raise and nurture, guide and fill with love and wisdom. It was a special time in my life.
I did not think the same thing when that miraculous creation of mine called on the phone from the road where he was touring with his father's band and said, "Hey, Ma, can I sleep at my girlfriend's house?"
I wanted to vomit.
Actually, I wanted to open the fridge and eat everything on the second shelf, the third shelf, and then the top shelf. Not even the old brick of cheddar with the mold on it was safe from the surge of anxiety and uncertainty I felt at that moment.
I kept my head on, though, and said, "I don't think it's a good idea."
After we'd said goodbye, I held the phone at arm's length in shock. Wolfie's question lingered in the air, like a smoke signal in an old western portending imminent danger.
I looked around for Tom to ask him how I had gotten to this place. He had gone outside, which was lucky for me. With gleeful sarcasm, he would have reminded me that this situation was the result of one night nearly eighteen years earlier when I had gotten frisky with my then-husband, Ed. Now I had a sixteen-and-three-quarters- year-old teenager who wanted to sleep with his girlfriend. Then Tom came through the front door whistling his happy tune. I was still debating whether to eat or throw up. I filled him in on the news.
"Tell me again—what did Wolfie say exactly?" he asked.
"He said he wanted to sleep at Liv's house," I said.
"Well, that's not exactly saying he wants to sleep with her," he said.
"You're talking semantics," I said. "I'm thinking sex."
"You are?" he said, his face unfolding in a giant smile.
"Oh, shut up," I snapped. "What is it with men? I'm in a quandary, and you've somehow turned this around and think you're going to get lucky."
"I'm not?" he asked, with a sad face.
"Come on," I said. "Help me think this through."
We sat down at the kitchen table and talked. Tom pointed out that Wolfie had called home to ask permission. He hadn't slept over at Liv's house, even though he was halfway across the country and traveling as part of a rock-and-roll band. Tom suggested I think about how Wolfie's dad had been at that same age, something that made me say a quick prayer of thanks. Wolfie knew right from wrong, Tom pointed out. If he didn't, he was trying to figure it out and had looked to his mother for advice. He was a good kid. Ergo, what was I worried about?
"Losing him!" I said with an exaggerated whimper.
At the time, I weighed 132.2 pounds, down 40 pounds from when I had begun a very public diet earlier that spring. I had already surpassed my original weight loss goal of 30 pounds and at some point -- I had failed to note it on my calendar -- I had gone from losing weight to being on maintenance.
I had talked about maintenance for months as if it were a change of life. But I had no idea what it was really about. I figured I would learn once I got there. Then I got there and wondered what it was that I was supposed to be maintaining. My life was in flux -- it wasn't a work-in-progress as much as it was simply work. As I would find out, maintenance was exactly that -- more work.
And it was life work, not losing-weight work.
If my weight was a barometer of the rest of my life, I still wasn't where I wanted to be. In addition to concern about my weight, I also knew that I could be better, kinder, smarter, more disciplined, compassionate, patient, and loving. I wanted to feel like I mattered. I yearned for a lightness of being that couldn't be measured on a scale. I wanted to feel whole, peaceful, and connected to a Higher Power even if just for a few moments.
But real life made that seem impossible. Whether it was Wolfie being away from home, Tom's struggles to be a hands-on father to his children, my career, the house falling apart, or my anger at Bush and Cheney for where they had taken the country, I was unable to relax much less get a firm grip. Then Wolfie fell in love and I felt as if part of the floor had given way.
"What about condoms?" Tom mused one day.
"What do you mean by that?" I asked.
"For Wolfie," he said.
I looked at him, aghast at his insensitivity.
"Not funny."
I liked Wolfie's girlfriend, Liv, who was a friend of Tom's oldest daughter. Wolfie had met her the previous summer in Arizona, but he never appeared to take any special interest in her. Nor did she in him. One time he mentioned that she bugged him. I should have taken note.
Then Liv and her family moved to Kansas and we didn't hear about her. In the meantime, Wolfie went on tour. We talked every couple of days. He was semi-good about keeping in touch. He texted me from Indianapolis and phoned from Chicago and Detroit. He had a story about each city. Then he called from Kansas, where in an unusually excited voice, he said that he had the day off and that he and Matt, the young man who drove his tour bus and watched out for him, had been invited to eat dinner at Liv's house.
He asked if I remembered Liv. Had I developed Alzheimer's since he'd gone out on tour with Van Halen a few months earlier? Of course, I remembered her. He said that Liv's mom had invited them to have a home-cooked meal.
"Isn't that nice of them?" he said.
"Yes, it is," I said.
"I'm so excited," he said.
Wolfie was never that effusive unless he saw a new gadget at the Apple store. All of a sudden I paid more attention. My son hadn't sounded like himself when he had asked, "Is that nice of them?" He crossed the line when he said, "I'm so excited." I realized he was telling me that there was more to this invitation than dinner. He liked this girl.
It was one of those subtle moments in life when you open your eyes and discover that the pieces that have provided longtime familiarity in a relationship have shifted slightly in one direction or another. It's like waking up in the morning and remembering that you rearranged a couple pieces of furniture in the room. You have to create new walkways so you don't bump into things.
I'm not someone who likes change. I have had the furniture in my living room for twenty years. I bought it with Ed early in our marriage. I have been meaning to get it recovered for the past five years. It shows you how fast I move. I wasn't ready for my son to have a girlfriend and everything that meant. Is any mother ever ready to relinquish her place as first in their child's heart? I wasn't.
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