even if the worst happens, at least I saw it coming.
Have you ever done that – told your guests, “I just threw this dinner together,” or warned a tennis opponent, “I’ve only had a few lessons”? Even announced to your boss or anyone else that you’re going to fail? Or that you’re not going to meet that deadline, or make that spare, or find that secret passageway leading into the pyramid? (Hey, I don’t know what you do for a living.) Well, it’s a preemptive declaration. There. You’ve said it. You’re going to fail. Now everyone has been duly notified. They may think less of you, but not less than you think of yourself. In my case, I guess I’m not the first insecure actress that producer had ever worked with, because he knew exactly what to do. He took me by the shoulders and calmly told me to repeat the following mantra every morning in front of the mirror: “I’m Teri Hatcher. The bad part is over, and only good things are to come.” Great. Even more lines to memorize.
If the mirror mantras work for you, great. By all means chant away. Me, I’m not wild about gazing at myself in the mirror. Still, the producer was right. Something had to be done. I wanted to have a more positive outlook, but it’s tough to uproot part of your personality. Most of us don’t change our personalities on a regular basis, and I’m already at war with myself enough of the time. But every so often life presents you with an opportunity to make a real change, and if you’re open and ready, you seize the day.
My fortieth birthday was a month before the Golden Globe award ceremony. To celebrate, six of my girlfriends and I went on a road trip to Napa Valley, the beautiful wine country outside San Francisco. I’d presented an award at the Emmys the year before, and in my thank-you basket, along with more luxury cosmetics than even an almost-forty-year-old actress could ever need, were a couple of gift certificates. One was for a lunch at BV Vineyard, a winery and vineyard with a tasty grill in a big Craftsman house, and another was for a couple nights at the Calistoga Ranch. And so, like any self-respecting bargain-lover, I built our trip around the coupons.
It was a great weekend, and not just because we had a cake with candles and sang “Happy Birthday” to me with every meal at every restaurant. (By the time it was over I’d run out of wishes – I’d used up world peace and Emerson’s health and happiness and finding true love and was down to things like wishing my dogs would stop shedding in the kitchen.) What truly made the weekend great was the company. My friends are all strong women with distinct personalities and opinions. They’re bossy and outspoken and downright outraged that I don’t have a boyfriend. And they aren’t exactly best friends with each other. I don’t mean that they don’t get along, but as I looked at them all in a group like that, I realized that this wasn’t a gathering of old school chums. The group was unique to me. They were my friends, and each one was here to make my weekend special. I felt a little awkward, being the center like that, but I was moved that they were there for me.
We all had adjoining rooms in the inn, and each room had a terrace and a hot tub. It was pretty decadent. Lucky for me the coupons were like the game show prizes I’d always dreamed of winning as a child. And you only turn forty once. The day of my birthday, we took a long walk up a quiet Napa road dotted with wineries. We talked and laughed and whenever my girlfriends saw a winery with the proprietor’s name on it they threatened to knock on the door and set me up with him. (“How does ‘Teri Hatcher Gallo’ sound?” Ha ha.) Later that night, tired from the sun and the wine, I climbed into my hot tub for a soak. I lounged there, naked, lazy, and middle-aged. (Ugh. Did I just say that word? Please God, say it isn’t so.) If I looked either way I could catch glimpses of my friends – one stepping out to hang a towel on her balcony, another sitting with a book and a glass of wine, a third crawling into her own hot tub. I closed my eyes, sank low in the steamy water, and let myself float. I was so content. I felt happy and complete. It was a great moment.
Then I started thinking. I was forty years old. Landmark birthdays are the perfect time to reflect on where you are and whether you have the life you want. (They’re also a good time to buy people lottery tickets, which I like to give as birthday presents. Big birthdays deserve big hope. So forty lottery tickets stuffed into a fabulous purse or vase or jewelry box can be fun.) Forty is a loud reminder that time is always running out. You’re halfway home. You’re on the way down. Sure, when I’m sixty I’ll say I had no idea what a spring chicken I was at forty. But I remember when my parents turned forty and how old I thought they were. I may not feel old inside, but I’m definitely the twelve-year-old me’s definition of old. I’m biologically more or less halfway to death. It’s true and it’s no fun at all.
So I was thinking all this in the hot tub, and the thought that won out was that I should feel this good more of the time. We all should. We should feel relaxed, happy, and loved most of the time. But a girl can’t bring six close friends to enjoy the benefits of grape-based antioxidant beverages amidst gorgeous, expansive vineyard scenery every weekend of her life. We each have to figure out how to capture that joy in our everyday lives. And that’s when I started thinking about all the time I was spending planning for failure. All that time spent assuming I was going to be the worst housewife on network television. Or thinking I was going to meet a no-good guy. Or telling myself I couldn’t play ping-pong or cliff-jump or bounce off a water trampoline. Turning forty was a time to reassess, and to honestly address what I had to fix. Through the hardest years of my life – a disintegrating marriage, a stalled career, and a mortgage I couldn’t afford – when I felt like I’d pretty much failed at Life 101 – I always prided myself on being a great survivor. But I didn’t want to spend another decade of my life preparing myself for the next disaster. I was missing out on the good stuff because I was spending all my time dwelling on the bad.
It seems like we all do this. We worry and plan and hedge our bets. To some extent this is part of building a life. It makes sense when you’re young, your life isn’t stable, and you’re making decisions that determine your future. But as we get older, we need to start accepting and relishing where we’ve landed. We need to start reaping the benefits of the hard work that got us here (even as that hard work continues to plague us). I’m not talking about getting a built-in Jacuzzi for bliss-on-demand (though that would be nice). If you want to feel this satisfied with your life as it is, you have to shift your perspective. You have to spend less time doubting yourself and spend more time having hope and faith in the life you’ve worked so hard to create. Now is the time, no matter what decade you’re facing. It’s time to be a good winner.
When it comes to changing yourself there are two schools of thought. You can work from the inside, trying to understand the history of all your feelings and how you got to be the way you are. Then, eventually, you can try to use those realizations to change your life. Or you can start from the outside, acting the way you want to be, even if you don’t feel it yet. Eventually it will sink in. I opted for the latter strategy. My mind is stronger than my habits. (Isn’t it? Shouldn’t it be?) I decided to watch for my moments of doubt, and to break the habit by sheer force of will.
Near where I live, there’s a hiking trail that runs through the mountains. It’s a pretty popular place, particularly among the dog-owning set, who park along our street every day. This trail was actually part of the reason I bought my house. I figured I’d have no excuse not to exercise if there was a lovely mountain walk practically in my backyard. So I got on an exercise kick recently and decided to run the trail. It’s three miles long, and it’s very hilly. A few of the hills are extremely long – up to a mile of gradual to steep incline without a break. Some days when I’m running up the trail, I have to stop and walk for a while. And I’ve noticed that whenever I do that, I start telling myself that I’ve failed. The whole time I’m walking, it’s God, you’re so lame. You can’t even make it up this hill. But come on! Shouldn’t I be complimenting myself for not sitting on the couch eating corn chips? Or congratulating myself for making it as far as I did? Or even admiring the view? I could be thinking any number of positive and healthy things, and instead I’m beating myself up. Why would I think I’d be able to walk out the front door and run three miles up big hills? That’s something you have to work up to. I struggled with this, trying not to beat myself up mentally as I challenged myself physically. On the hills, I started telling myself, You’re new to this. You’re not allowed to think bad thoughts. (At the very least, it was better than talking