Rocking the Pink Read online

  Back in the car, I told Brad about my new boyfriend.

  “You’re hardcore,” Brad teased.

  “I’m a badass, honey. Didn’t you know?” After all these years, how could he not know that about me?

  But the interaction inspired serious thought a moment later. “You know what? I think I actually look better like this.” I struggled to find the right words. “When I looked like everyone else and played by society’s standards of beauty, I could never quite measure up. Now that I don’t look conventional and I don’t have the option to, I don’t feel the pressure of conventional standards of beauty, either.”

  An entire lifetime of beauty magazines, hair highlights, and envying the perfect, preppy girls, and I’d wound up feeling best about myself when I was forced to abandon all the beauty aids. Go figure.

  It was the first time I had glimpsed a new world on the other side of cancer. In the shower that night, I drew a smiley face in the steam that had accumulated on the Plexiglas shower door. Just for the heck of it.

  Chapter 23

  When Chloe was a preschooler, Brad and I joined a neighborhood coed softball team, perhaps in an effort to reinforce the spousal connecting line on our family triangle. At one of our games, a teammate complained that his legs were sore from having run a full marathon—just over twenty-six miles—a couple days earlier. That caught my attention for two reasons. First, this guy was not a paragon of athleticism. And second, I’d always wanted to run a marathon. It was on my checklist of things to do in my lifetime.

  I turned to another softball teammate, a good friend named Mike, and whispered, “Well, if he can run a full marathon, then I most certainly can.”

  Mike replied, “If you do it, I’ll do it with you.”

  That night, in true Mike fashion, he sent me a spreadsheet detailing our training schedule—exactly what mileage to run on exactly which days to ensure maximum preparedness on race day. For the next twelve weeks, he and I trained together, per the exact specifications of his well-researched spreadsheet, running hither and yon around our neighborhood and talking nonstop about life, work, family, kids, religion, and music.

  On weekdays, I would come home after a long morning run and shower and dress for work just as Brad and the girls were waking up. On weekends, Brad graciously took a rain check on golf to watch the girls while I did my longest run of the week.

  I noticed that my waistline was slimming down and a spring had returned to my step. At work, my boss, Janice, wondered aloud why I was committed to this crazy goal.

  “It seems so time-consuming,” she observed. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I promised.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Myself.”

  By this time, Janice had fulfilled her dream of opening her own law firm, and I’d been working for her for the past few years. When she had first left our swanky firm several years before, I had just gotten pregnant with Sophie. “I can only do one major life change at a time,” I had said, and had opted to stay behind at my original firm.

  Right after Chloe was born, however, Janice had called me and asked, “Are you ever gonna come work for me?”

  “I work part-time now,” I’d warned.

  “That’s fine,” Janice had responded. “You can work as much or as little as you want. I just want you.”

  And so I’d made the switch. My swanky law firm had grown tired of my part-time work schedule anyway, so it was perfect timing.

  Several years into working at Janice’s new firm, however, I had realized that I did not, in fact, share her dreams (though I’d duped her, and myself, into believing so all those years earlier).

  “I guess I just lack ambition,” I’d said to Janice recently, in an unguarded moment of self-reflection.

  “Ha!” she had retorted. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  And she was right. What I should have said was, “I guess I just lack ambition in the law.”

  But, I didn’t say that. Either I hadn’t admitted that truth to myself, or I was too spineless to say so to Janice. Regardless, it was clear to me that Janice and I were not cut from the same cloth when it came to the legal profession: Just watching how energized and excited she was, on a daily basis, about her law firm, about being a lawyer, and about acquiring new cases and clients made it painfully obvious to me how little those same things inspired me.

  As time went by, Janice started pressuring me to work more and more hours; as it turned out, my part-time schedule wasn’t working out so well for her, either. But I wasn’t willing to forgo chaperoning field trips and after-school pickups—certainly not to spend even more time fighting over other people’s money.

  But rather than recognize, or act upon, the truth that lay in my heart, I opted instead to escape my doldrums and chase after my true self by running 26.2 miles. Logical, right?

  Crossing the finish line of that marathon was a watershed moment. I had never felt so empowered in all my life. I had set out to do something “impossible,” but with hard work and persistence (and certainly not innate athleticism), I had done it. I wondered what other “impossible” things I could accomplish by applying that same formula. I realized I’d been making excuses for years about why I couldn’t pursue my most passionate self: I can’t because I have young kids . . . I can’t because my job is too demanding . . . I realized I’d stopped dreaming years ago, not because of any outside factors, but because I’d created imaginary electric fences all around myself. All at once, I looked around and those electric fences had ceased to exist.

  The very afternoon after running the marathon, I sat down with my rubbery legs and a yellow legal pad, and I listed all the things I wanted to do before I died. Just one day earlier, that list would have included “run a marathon,” but now I’d checked that item off the list. I scribbled down anything that filled my heart, without regard to how I could possibly achieve it or how silly it sounded.

  I don’t remember everything I wrote on my list that day. I know it included traveling to Australia (not yet done), and also writing a book (check!). But the entry at the tippy-top of the list, underlined and circled, was one word: sing. I wanted to sing. I didn’t know how. Onstage? In a band? In a choir? On a street corner? I wasn’t sure. But I knew, in my bones, I had to do it.

  Tell me, baby, are you feeling scared, and

  Do you wonder how you just got here

  I’m hearing what you’re saying and it sounds like you’re blue

  Uptown problems but they feel real to you

  I love you, baby, but you’re thinking too much

  You’re pushing me away and

  I just wanna sing a love song, la la la la la la la la

  I just wanna sing a love song, la la la la la la la la

  Chapter 24

  Back when I was eight, Mom’s Magnum, P.I., look-alike boyfriend (a mustachioed heartthrob who also happened to be a first-class mooch) asked me to sing him a song.

  “Okay,” I agreed, enjoying the attention.

  As Magnum, P.I., leaned against our kitchen counter, spooning an entire apple pie into his mouth, I sang Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” to him: “Now here you go again, you say you want your freedom . . . ” I drawled, expertly mimicking Stevie Nicks’s lilting inflection and slurred phrasing.

  Magnum, P.I., spit out a mouthful of pie, he was so impressed.

  “Hey now, girl. You can sing!”

  The next day, much to my delight, Mr. Handsome came back with a stack of record albums and song requests.

  “‘Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue,’ by Crystal Gayle!” He shoved a record album into my hands. “Oh, and how about ‘Jolene,’ by Dolly Parton? That’d be a good one!” He pushed another album at me.

  It was a defining moment: I could sing!

  And now, all these years later, my inner child had been jogged loose, and she was furiously stomping her Buster Browns inside my head: I can sing! I gotta sing!

  But where? How?

/>   After much consideration—should I audition for local community theater, go to karaoke bars, or maybe deliver singing telegrams?—I decided what I wanted to do was sing in a rock band. (Not original, I know, but each time I said it out loud, it sounded less and less preposterous.) But how to achieve it? Rather than trying to build my own band from scratch, I figured my best bet was to find and join an existing, functioning band. Easier said than done. I was a thirty-five-year-old, married, minivan-driving mother of two. And if all that weren’t enough, I was an attorney to boot. Not the prototypical front woman of a rock band.

  What existing, functioning rock band would have me? I tried to visualize what that band would look like. First, and most obvious to me: They’d have to be all men. If this existing band already had a woman in it, then why would they need me? And anyway, I didn’t want to poach on another woman’s territory. Yes, definitely all men. Second, the womanless men in this band would need to be in their late thirties or forties, or, hell, even beyond, or else I didn’t stand a chance. As a thirty-five-year-old woman, I’d be a Golden Girl to a group of twentysomethings. On the contrary, in a group of older men, I might still have a little game. Finally, these womanless, fortysomething-year-old men would need to play music I actually liked and wanted to sing: fun, recognizable cover tunes. But, truth be told, if numbers one and two were satisfied, I probably would have joined a polka band.

  Now that I knew my criteria for the band of my dreams, it was time to find it. But how? Maybe there was a more professional, targeted approach than mine, but I simply followed my instincts: I went shopping online, the same way I’d have bought shoes on Zappos.com. But since Rock_Bands_Who_Let_You_Sing.com didn’t exist, as far as I knew, I googled “San Diego cover band.”

  A handful of websites popped up. I clicked on the first link and was met with a band photo—four dudes and a feisty-looking woman. Nope. I clicked on the next link. Another woman. I clicked on the next link. A woman. Dammit! I clicked on the next link. Hey, no woman . . . but these guys are toddlers. I clicked on the next link. A polka band. Okay, my standards were a bit higher than I had thought.

  The very last link on the screen was to a band called Cool Band Luke, a play on the classic movie Cool Hand Luke, starring Paul Newman. This was a good sign. Brad and I often quoted the movie’s most iconic lines, such as “I can eat fifty eggs,” “Just shakin’ the stick, boss,” and of course, “What we got here is . . . a failure to communicate.”

  I clicked on the link. Four handsome men stared back at me. Not a woman in sight! Bingo. I scrutinized their faces. It was hard to tell their ages from the grainy snapshot, but they were most definitely not in their twenties. Bingo again. I held my breath and clicked on a tab labeled “Song List.” Up came a list of songs like “Mustang Sally” and “Brick House”—party standards. Triple bingo! I felt a tingling begin to course through my body.

  After finding the band’s email address, I composed a lengthy sales-pitch email, which I’ve abridged here to save myself too much humiliation (and you from boredom):I am a 35-year-old woman who is looking to acquire backup vocalist experience . . . . I know some, even lots, of your song list. . . . [A]re you ever in need of a female backup singer or vocalist? I have no ego, I’d do backup and that’s it, and you would not have to pay me. I just want the experience and the opportunity. . . . I am a local attorney . . . . You can see my picture on my firm’s website, [website address], just to see that I am not a lunatic or something. . . . I know this is sort of random, and perhaps you will consider this bizarre, but I live by the philosophy that you never, ever “get” if you don’t ask.

  I read and reread the email, adjusted the phrasing to make it just right, and pressed the “send” button. I took a deep breath to control my excitement. Calm down, I told myself. Really, you shouldn’t get your hopes up. It could take days to hear back from them, if ever, and . . .

  Just then, I received an immediate email reply from a guy named Rob, the guitarist from Cool Band Luke: “Can you call me, please?” he wrote, along with a phone number. I immediately picked up the phone.

  Rob and I hit it off. He had a dry, understated sense of humor and didn’t take himself or the band too seriously. He was a straight shooter—not a cheeseball at all. I knew right away it was a fit.

  “Your timing is incredible,” Rob said. “The band was just talking today about maybe finding a female singer, trying to mix things up. There are so many classic female songs we’d love to play.”

  I was spazzing out. “Oh, great! Can I come to your next rehearsal and, you know, see if you guys like my voice?” Damn, my voice was sounding like a chipmunk’s. Get a hold of yourself, Laura!

  “Why don’t you just send us your demo?” he suggested. “If we like what we hear, we’ll arrange a time to meet in person and jam for a bit.”

  “Sounds great!” A little squeak escaped from my throat. Laura, try to sound casual. “Yeah, I’ll just send you my demo.” Damn, now I was going into drill sergeant mode.

  We said our goodbyes and hung up. It was a great plan. Yes. I’d send them my demo, and if they liked it, we’d get together and “jam for a bit.” Awesome! Only one little problem: I didn’t have a demo. And telling them the truth was out of the question; I didn’t want them to think I was an amateur (which, of course, I was). I would adopt the same attitude I always did: Fake it till you make it.

  The next afternoon, Brad and the girls (by then ages six and three) came home from a daddy-daughter day to find me standing in the middle of our family room with a teenager whom I’d found online (after having googled “how do I make a demo?”). I was wearing big black earphones and singing my heart out into a fancy overhead microphone supplied by my new best friend.

  “Hi, honey,” Brad said tentatively. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Makin’ a demo.” I smiled. There was a pause as we stared at each other. I’ll tell you all about it later.

  And then, God bless him, Brad escorted the girls quietly out of the room.

  I sent the guys from Cool Band Luke—Rob, Jann, and Buzz—my “demo” (pretending, of course, that I’d had it all along), and, after hearing it, they invited me to their next rehearsal! I was elated, but also nervous.

  I showed up to Cool Band Luke’s rehearsal at Buzz’s house (with pizza and beer for the guys and flowers for Buzz’s wife). I must have changed my shirt eight times in anticipation of our first meeting, trying to decide if I should show a little cleavage, or maybe go for “not trying too hard” in a T-shirt, or maybe just try to stay classy (as mandated by Will Ferrell’s Ron Burgundy in Anchorman).

  When I walked up the steps of Buzz’s house in a semiclassy, flowery blouse that showed a tiny (but undeniable) peep of cleavage, I had butterflies in my stomach and my throat felt tight. But then I met the guys. These guys were funny. Patient. Talented. Family guys. They were my people.

  In person, Rob was every bit as cool and easygoing as he’d been on the phone. And Jann, the bass player, who also managed the band’s website, was warm and genuine. He echoed Rob’s earlier amazement about my timing in contacting them.

  “The band has been taking a break for almost a year,” Jann said. “The day you emailed us was the very first day I had put the website back up.”

  It was fate!

  And then there was Buzz, the lead singer, a big-hearted, frenetic bundle of creativity. Buzz picked up his guitar and began to play “Brick House.” I took a deep breath and began to sing along to the music. The guys laughed at hearing a woman sing, “She’s mighty mighty, just lettin’ it all hang out.” When someone suggested we try Ike and Tina Turner’s version of “Proud Mary,” I squealed and told them how much I loved the song.

  “If we do that one, I’ll have to do the Tina Turner dance, like this,” I proclaimed, jumping up and shaking my body around wildly like Tina Turner (though I probably looked more like Richard Simmons).

  The guys clearly enjoyed that spectacle, but no one had made a definitive statement about
whether I was in or out. And I couldn’t get a read on how Buzz felt about my horning in on his lead-singer territory.

  I decided to force the issue. “You know, I’d be thrilled to sing ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ in the background, if that’s what you guys want,” I said, putting out a trial balloon.

  “Nah,” Buzz assured me. “I’ll sing half the songs, and you sing the other half. My voice gets tired from singing all the time, anyway.”

  The other guys agreed unanimously. I was in!

  We selected a crop of songs for me to sing, and then embarked on several weeks of rehearsals for our first gig together, at the upcoming county fair in Ramona, California: population 36,405. Every time I ran out the door, telling Brad I was going to “rehearse with the band” (usually followed by “Don’t forget to give the girls a bath!”), I felt as if I’d been inhaling nitrous oxide. I was in a rock band!

  On the day of our first “big” (but actually small) show, at the Ramona County Fair, I stepped onto that stage with my band and belted out songs like “Chain of Fools” and “Me and Bobby McGee,” much to the thrill of my entire extended family (including Brad and the girls—who’d covered their hair with glitter for the occasion—Dad, and Sharon) and the Bunco Girls.

  At first I couldn’t hold the microphone steady because my hands were shaking so hard, so I just kept it in its stand. But once I’d made it through the first three or four songs, sheer terror gave way to unadulterated, childlike joy. I could barely enunciate the lyrics, my smile was so ridiculously wide.

  The next morning, I still had that smile on my face, and I’d also acquired a grapefruit-size bruise on my right hip—the by-product of having banged my tambourine all night with an overabundance of enthusiasm and a deficit of technique.

  I had reclaimed a part of me that had lain dormant for far too long. I was me again.

  I was snowbound, homebound, rewound

  Hellbound, desk-bound, headin’ downtown

  Dumbfound, round and round, racing like a Greyhound,