I had a long cut on my leg from the water (who knew that could happen?). Emerson noticed the blood, and I shrugged it off with some stupid excuse. I was in agony, but I didn’t want to cry in front of Emerson. Instead, I got a rum-infused coconut beverage from the guy walking down the beach and subtly iced my wound.
Now I look at the scar on my leg and wonder if I did the right thing. Should I have let Emerson know that I was hurt? Should I have called over a (preferably cute) lifeguard for some first aid? Why didn’t I do that? Why did I hide the truth about what was going on with me? Did I do it for her or for me? Was I trying to be cool or tough? There’s an emotional experience embedded in that scar. There’s a lesson locked in it. I’m done making silent self-sacrifices. I’m done hiding the truth. Here it is. Have at it.
I hope you’ll discover as you read this book that vulnerability plays a key role in my life. It’s hard for me – I have trouble admitting that I need other people. I’ve always tried to be honest about my fears and insecurities and self-doubt. When I was doing the photo shoot for the cover of this book, I spent the first hour thinking, This is ridiculous. I haven’t even written the book yet. (I guess this is how they do things in the world of publishing – they need the jacket before the book’s done.) So I was up there posing and thinking, Maybe there is no book. Maybe I have nothing to say. Maybe I’m just an idiot. Who do I think I am? Then I started talking to the photographer and the makeup guy and the wardrobe guy and the photo assistants. We were laughing and feeling good, and suddenly someone revealed that, like me, he’d had no sex on his honeymoon. We both had felt embarrassed and inadequate, like we were the only people in the history of time who couldn’t get it together to have sex on a honeymoon. And I said, “See, we really are all the same!” Maybe this is too much information for an introduction – I’m already telling you about my sex life (or sad lack thereof) and I’m only on page 4. (It was the publisher’s mandate – write whatever you want so long as you mention sex before Chapter 2.) But that’s what this book is about – how when we feel fragile and vulnerable and hopeful and human, we’re not alone. And if I can have these feelings and work through them then you can too. My hope for this book is that you’ll read it in the bathtub. Maybe with a glass of wine. And that you’ll laugh a little and feel a little inspired.
Just because I’m up front about this stuff doesn’t mean I’ve figured it all out. Not even close. Even if I do have some good ideas about how to help you live a happier life, I’m not sure I always practice them, and I certainly don’t practice them every day. It’s too hard. Some days I’m like Alice, trapped deep down in that rabbit hole. And instead of trying to find my way out, I just hide away, watch B movies until I can’t keep my eyes open, and then sleep for a really long time. But I rarely have time for that self-indulgence, so I put on my mom clothes or my “Teri Hatcher” costume, as I like to call it, and pretend everything’s fine.
In my scrapbook from 1999 there’s a fortune-cookie fortune that says, “Your luck has been completely changed today.” But you don’t change in a day. Just because you’re getting older or more successful doesn’t mean you automatically grow as a human being. You learn things when life presents you with an opportunity and you’re ready to receive it. When Desperate Housewives came along, I was, like many an aging female actress in Hollywood, a big has-been. I’ve made no secret of that. I never expected to get a second chance, though I must have saved that fortune in hope that everything actually could change overnight. When it did, when Desperate Housewives became a hit, I suddenly had the job and security and affirmation that I’d given up on long before.
Over time, when they don’t come true, you lose sight of your dreams. Years go by and you look back and wonder how you got so far without starting a band, making a sculpture, doing the things that you wanted to do but couldn’t because now you have a family or kids or a mortgage. For whatever reason, it didn’t ever happen. So when my dream actually became reality, my response wasn’t “better late than never.” I’d just turned forty, was a divorced mom of a young daughter, and I didn’t want to simply ride my wave of success. I wanted to live it – not as the twenty-year-old who desired it, but as the forty-year-old who worked hard for it but thought her opportunity had passed. It woke me up to the realization that though life is unpredictable, things can change for the better, dreams we thought were long past can still come true, and that we increase our chances of that happening by believing that we are deserving – of golden-brown buttered toast, and success and happiness. Mmm. I’m getting hungry.
I wrote most of this book sitting on the floor in my living room. I like the floor. There’s no place to fall. The first time I sat down with a little blank book, a pen, and the mandate from my editor to start writing down my thoughts and feelings, I stared at the page. Before I could hook any of the ideas that worm their way in and out of my tired brain, I just sat there in awe. Wow. I have an editor. I wrote that down. And crappy penmanship. I wrote that down too. Yeah, I’m finally old enough, used enough, hailed enough to put some of it on paper. That got me started. I kept going until the first page was almost full and I was on to the next, but my hand was starting to hurt. I’d finally seen, touched, and tasted enough; I’d loved, struggled, and learned enough to have a tale to tell, and my hand was having an arthritic attack. Leave it to me to figure out how to stand in my own way. Time after time as I shuffled through scrawled notes and fragmented thoughts, I was paralyzed by my lack of confidence. This wasn’t an unfamiliar state of affairs. No matter what the challenge before me – an audition, a photo shoot, writing a book, or a relationship – for all my past accomplishments, I torture myself on the way, always wondering, Why would they pick me? Why am I good enough to do this? He’ll never like me as much as I like him. Who the hell do I think I am – I’m not that special. This book itself was a journey for me. Writing it forced me to face my self-doubt and fears – the same kind of struggles that this book contemplates. I kept thinking, I need to read this book. In fact, I’ll probably be the first one to buy a copy because then a) I’ll know that at least one copy sold and b) I really will be able to remind myself of the lessons I’ve learned every once in a while.
The lessons here are about how to forgive, love, enjoy, and explore yourself as a woman. I’ve finally gotten to a place where I’m easier on myself. I’m comfortable and happy being a mother. Being in my body. Feeling sensual as a forty-year-old woman. Most of the time. I sure hope you’re one of the people who managed to have sex at some point during your honeymoon. Good for you! But if you’ve ever felt like a spicy gumbo of fear and confidence, despair and hope, desire and satisfaction, mother and child, pretty and ugly, strong and weak, then read on. The journey’s a whole lot easier if we take it together.
Imagine this. It’s a sunny Sunday and you’re meeting some friends for a picnic at a lovely spot that’s mere minutes from your home. (Hey, it’s a fantasy – we might as well make it convenient.) You’re in a great mood, and you even brought a yummy gourmet lunch that someone else prepared. (Again: fantasy.) When you arrive at your idyllic, balmy destination, it turns out there’s a lake, with an outcropping of rock jutting out over it to form a natural high-dive. It’s high enough to be scary, but low enough to be safe. There are screams of joy as an endless line of people jump off. Okay, now here’s where I want you to drop the fantasy and consider the situation as if it were real. The question is: Are you the kind of person who climbs right up, takes in the view for a fraction of a second, then plunges off the edge without a second thought? Or do you stand there, trying to get your guts up to jump, and after a few minutes decide it’s too scary and climb back down, admitting defeat? Are you the daredevil, or the wimp? The good news (I hope) is that I’m not here to talk about how brave the first person is, and how the second person is a pluckless chicken who should learn to face the world with guts and determination. No, the way I see it is – if you’re either of these people, you’re lucky. You know what makes you happy, you know your limits, and that’s that. But some of us are stuck in the middle, making life a whole lot more complicated than that. I’m the one who found myself standing frozen at the top of a twenty-five-foot-high rock platform looking down at a placid Sedona lake. I’m