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  Let me share with you all of the items Betty “I Am Downsizing” DeGeneres asked movers to wrap up, place in a box, seal up in the box, put in a van, and move into a whole new house so that I could cut open the box, take out the items, and unwrap them:

  A three-hole punch.

  A single-hole punch.

  A VHS tape of Abs of Steel.

  An unopened VHS tape of Hip Hop Abs.

  A harmonica.

  Another harmonica.

  A third harmonica.

  A rusty sifter.

  A colander from 1953.

  Biscuit cutters.

  Many of those items have moved thirty-two times. And I should point a few things out. First of all, Mama moved into that house in 2010 not 1987, as the VHS tapes would have you believe. Second of all, Mama is not in a blues band. She doesn’t play the harmonica and even if she did, the ones I found in that box looked like they had been dug up next to some train tracks. If Mama put her mouth anywhere near them I would immediately take her for a tetanus shot. Thirdly, Mama does not cook or bake or prepare food in any way. I don’t know what sort of imaginary biscuits she thinks she’s going to cut.

  I could not believe how much stuff my mama still had, but it’s because we all justify holding on to things. We do this especially with clothing. We all have so many things in our closets that we never wear but we convince ourselves to keep just in case we ever need to paint. We don’t paint, we won’t paint, but we have dozens of old Wham! T-shirts just in case.

  A lot of people hold on to clothing just for the sentimental value. They say, “I can’t get rid of this jacket. I love it. I wore it on my first cruise.” Of course you love it. You bought it. But it doesn’t fit you anymore and the shoulder pads make you look like a 1980s football player who loved the color salmon.

  I’m guilty of it, too. I still have the shirt I wore my first time on Johnny Carson. Only now I use it as a tablecloth at dinner parties. It was very blousy.

  We’re always worried that we’re going to get rid of something and then it’s going to come back in fashion. But even if it does—and I assure you that paisley jumpsuit you’ve been holding on to won’t—they always make a tiny tweak so that it’s a little bit different so we have to buy the updated version.

  One year, big collars are in and the next year they make collars an eighth of an inch shorter. So we go out and buy the collar that’s an eighth of an inch shorter because heaven forbid someone sees us walking around town with last year’s collar. As if strangers on the street are going to come up to us and measure our collars. “Oh no. She’s wearing last year’s collar, everyone! She’s wearing last year’s collar!”

  It’s not just clothing we hold on to. It’s old electronics and old furniture and I’ll tell you one thing I recently discovered in my own home—lotion. Portia hoards lotion. I don’t know how it took me so long to notice but she has bottles and bottles of lotion. There are some lined up on the counter, some in baskets under the sink. She has cheap ones from drugstores and real fancy ones from the Sheraton and the Holiday Inn.

  She has every kind of lotion there is—and there’s a lot. There’s lotion for your face, lotion for your hands, lotion for your feet, lotion for your body. Why? What would happen if you put hand lotion on your feet? Would your feet get confused and start clapping?

  Each kind says it has something special in it for your skin—aloe, shea butter, coconut, cocoa butter, vanilla, lemon extract. That’s not lotion. That’s one ingredient short of a Bundt cake.

  Don’t get me wrong. I like lotion. I use a moisturizer on my face. I have to—it’s my moneymaker. And I like to use hand lotion. I shake a lot of hands and I want people to experience my suppleness. But hand lotion is tricky. You have to know exactly how much to put on. You don’t want to overdo it. Portia once put too much on and got stuck in the bathroom for an hour trying to turn the doorknob. Then I had to remind her we have a door that slides.

  My point is everyone who has buckets and buckets of lotion should get rid of all the lotion they don’t use anymore. And by everyone I do mean Portia. Or at least she should think about combining all the half bottles into one giant bottle so we can get rid of some stuff and she can smell like a baby eating a cucumber in an orange grove. I hope she reads this.

  I really do think it’s important to let go of things and give things away, to declutter and get out from under that pile of papers and old cereal boxes and harmonicas. It’s cathartic. It’s freeing. Plus you can get good money for some stuff on eBay. A “vintage” colander goes for just under $3.50. Mama’s gonna be rich!

  Personally Speaking

  I spend a lot of time exploring my body. Hang on, that doesn’t sound quite right. What I mean to say is, I like to constantly be in touch with my own body. Okay, that’s not right, either. My body is a wonderland. I don’t even know why I just said that.

  What I’m trying to say is that as I’ve gotten older I’ve started to pay closer attention to my body and to my physical well-being. I think we all have to do that as we get older. We have to check ourselves out, literally, to make sure nothing has appeared or disappeared or grown or shrunk or tightened or loosened or sagged or ulcered or bulged or inflamed. I really hope you’re not eating.

  Once we hit forty and fifty years old, our bodies go through a lot of changes. Even if we’re in really good shape (read: I have buns of steel) things start to slow down. Our metabolism slows down, our reflexes slow down, sometimes we become slightly more forgetful. I don’t want to alarm anyone who isn’t there yet, but you should know that a day will come when you leave your keys in the freezer and try to start your car with a bagel. You should also know that studies have shown that after age fifty there is a 97 percent chance you will pull your groin while putting on a bathing suit. It’s a proven fact. You can do the research on your own time.

  I actually pulled my groin once a few years ago. I don’t even know how I did it. All I know is when it happened I was right in the middle of auditioning for the Rockettes and it ruined everything. The problem with pulling your groin, besides pulling your groin, is that there isn’t a delicate way to treat it. Whenever I pull a muscle in my back, I get a massage to make it feel better. When you pull a muscle in your groinal region, it’s much trickier. You can’t ask a stranger to massage it. That’s why I had to ask my gardener to do it. And I’ll be honest—at first it was awkward. But then it was beautiful.

  We have to take care of ourselves as we age and that includes getting procedures done that are invasive, uncomfortable, and at times what many would refer to as “third date territory.” One of those procedures is a colonoscopy. I had my first routine colonoscopy after I turned fifty. I’m sure you all know what it entails, but if you don’t I’ll explain it as best I can. Basically, a colonoscopy is a procedure where a camera starts downtown and travels uptown on the C train. In Los Angeles, they do it a little bit differently. They attach cameras to teeny, tiny paparazzi who head up there and take thousands of pictures of your colon that later end up on TMZ.

  I didn’t know exactly what to expect when I went in for my colonoscopy. First of all, because of my work schedule, I had to get mine done on a Saturday. Luckily, there’s a little kiosk in the mall that does colonoscopies and ear piercing on the weekends.

  The first thing I had to do when I got there was put on a gown. I think it was a Zac Posen. I don’t normally wear gowns, but this was a beautiful one—open in the back and slightly off the shoulder. They made me take everything off except my socks. I guess they let you keep those on so that you don’t feel totally naked. As it turns out, even with socks on you still feel totally and completely naked. I don’t know what they’re thinking. Socks or no socks, all the important parts are still out and about.

  After I was in my gown and socks, the doctor came in and greeted me. She was also wearing a gown so I tried to make a joke like, “Hey, isn’t it embarrassing that we’re wearing the same gown?” She laughed but she was holding a needle at th
e time, so it suddenly felt like a scene from Misery. Right away she started to give me sleepy-time drugs. That’s the medical term. And all I remember after the sleepy-time drugs is saying, “I gotta get—” and that’s it. I was out for the rest of the procedure. When you wake up, it’s a little disorienting. You’re not sure where you are. Katie Couric is there with a film crew. It’s jarring. But it’s necessary and I’m glad I did it.

  Another routine procedure that every woman needs to get is a mammogram. Now, the word “mammogram” makes it sound like it’s going to be a fun experience. You think a cute little grandma is going to show up at your door to sing you a happy birthday song or something. Unfortunately, that is not the case. A mammogram is less like a fun song and more like an industrial-strength panini press.

  The difference between a colonoscopy and a mammogram—well, there are a few differences obviously. One takes place above the equator and one takes place below it. But the other difference is that with a mammogram you are fully aware of what is going on. You don’t need any drugs to knock you out because it’s not a painful procedure. It’s just uncomfortable and awkward, especially given the fact that you are standing face to face with the technician working the machine. At least, it’s awkward for me anyway because inevitably I have to make small talk. “Yep, I do dance a lot… No, not all the time… Well, I’m a big fan of your mom, so thank you, that’s nice to hear.”

  I cannot believe they haven’t yet come up with a better screening process than the mammogram. If a man had to put his special parts inside a clamp to test him for anything, I think they would come up with a new plan before the doctor finished saying, “Put that thing there so I can crush it.”

  I’m getting away from my point. My point is, these tests are very important. And I don’t mind telling you all about my groin, my colon, and my breasts if it means helping you take care of yourself. I just thought of something else I could share with you. Would you like to hear about one of my moles? No. Okay. Moving on.

  The Secret of Life

  Kale.

  The Secret of Life—Part Two

  Okay, there might be more to the secret of life than kale. (Although it really is an incredible leaf. One serving of kale has 88 percent of your daily value of vitamin C. That’s the nutritional element of the book I was referring to earlier.)

  People are constantly searching for the secret of life. In terms of what people spend their time searching for, it goes sunglasses, the secret of life, the fountain of youth, car in the mall parking lot, cell phone, keys, contact lenses, love. We all spend time searching for the secret of life because we think it will bring us closer to the one thing we all want—the one thing that, no matter what we do in our lives or where we go or who we marry, we all aspire to have. It’s the most important thing in the world: money. No, I’m sorry, not money. Happiness. That’s what I meant—happiness. And once you find happiness, you’ve pretty much uncovered the secret.

  Some people believe that to find happiness, you should live each day of your life as if it’s your last because that way you will appreciate every single moment you have. Other people believe that you should live each day as if it’s your first because then every day can be the beginning of a new journey. Those are conflicting ideas, and I know it can be confusing. Do you live each day as if it’s your first or your last? Either way you should probably have a diaper on.

  If you lived each day like it’s your first, you would constantly be discovering the world like babies do. Babies have an incredible sense of wonder. They are in awe of everything around them, from mirrors to squeaky toys to their own hands. The simplest things are mesmerizing to them. Adults are sometimes mesmerized by their own hands but it’s usually under very different circumstances, when they’re attending music festivals in the desert.

  That’s why it’s so refreshing for me to be around my two-year-old niece. Everything excites her right now because she’s experiencing so many things for the very first time. She’s learning how to walk and talk. Recently we let her drive on the freeway for the first time. She went wild for it.

  For some reason as we get older, we lose that sense of wonder. We get jaded. I don’t know when it happens exactly, but I think it’s sometime between finding out the tooth fairy doesn’t exist and realizing the Real Housewives are neither real nor housewives.

  It could also be that we’re desensitized. Between YouTube and reality television and Cinemax After Dark, we’ve pretty much seen it all. There are very few things that wow us anymore. A child will see something as simple as a garage door opening and it’s literally all they will talk about for weeks. As an adult, we will see a human person ride a bike, catapult over eighteen cars that are on fire, land on a skateboard, slide down a ramp, and end up in the backseat of a taxi, and be like, “Yeah, that was all right. But did you see the guy who pogo sticked over thirty-eight grandmothers?”

  I’m not saying we need to live like babies in every way. I mean, sure, it would be great to get carried around in a papoose. Who wouldn’t want that? But I am glad I’m potty trained and not always trying to eat my feet like babies do.

  I just wish we could hold on to that sense of wonder because sometimes we don’t notice some of the most incredible things in the world. We walk by beautiful flowers and trees every day without looking at them. We rush through our day without even saying hi to most of the people we see. We take a lot for granted, and I think that’s why some people say it’s better to live each day as our last. That way we might start appreciating more things around us. Either that or we would immediately quit our jobs to go live in a yurt.

  If we lived each day as our last, I bet we’d all be a lot more honest with people, because we wouldn’t have to care what people think anymore. We would meet a friend for lunch and blurt out, “Hey, that’s an ugly hat!” Or tell a police officer, “If you thought that was speeding, sir, you should’ve seen what I was doing earlier! I think it was the fastest I’ve ever driven.” Or if you break up with someone you would finally tell them, “I just want you to know, it’s not me. It’s you.”

  There would be nothing to lose, and because of that you would probably take a lot more chances in life. I think it’s important to take risks. That doesn’t mean you have to do something crazy like jump out of a plane or scale an ice-covered mountain using only your fingers, a short piece of rope, and a nail file. I don’t know what makes people see sharp cliffs and say, “I’d like to dangle from that.” Obviously, if you’re into that sort of thing go for it, but if you’re not, you can start small. Eat an apple without washing it first. Answer your phone even though the number calling is “unknown.” Wait only twenty-seven minutes to swim after you eat. Do whatever you think is risky.

  When you take risks you learn that there will be times when you succeed and there will be times when you fail, and both are equally important. It’s hard to understand failure when you’re going through it, but in the grand scheme of things it’s good to fall down—not because you’re drunk and not near stairs.

  But it’s failure that gives you the proper perspective on success. When I came out of the closet on my sitcom I knew it was a risk, but I took the risk and look what happened. It got canceled. Not the point. The point is, I got back on my horse—when I found out my sitcom got canceled, I happened to be riding one of those toy horses outside the supermarket—and I pushed forward. I said, “You’ll show them, Ellen!” And I did another sitcom. Guess what happened? That got canceled, too. Not the point, either. The real point is that I kept going and now I appreciate my success more than I could have ever imagined. I look back on the days of doing stand-up in a basement for three friends—well, one friend and two mice. Okay, three mice. And I am so proud of where I am today. So let that be a lesson, kids who get an F in math. Ellen says you’re doing the right thing. You’re welcome, parents.

  When you really think about it, it doesn’t matter if you choose to live each day as your first or your last. You could live each day as you
r second or third so all the gunk you’re born with is out of your eyes. Or you could live each day as your 912th or 15,337th. I actually remember that day in my life so clearly. I was in my forties and I needed a break from everything in my life, so I decided to get away. I went to Jamaica and I spent some time thinking about my life and what I wanted and I ended up learning how to get my groove back. You know what? I’m sorry. I’m thinking of How Stella Got Her Groove Back.

  But what’s important is that you enjoy and appreciate every day, and that’s something you can accomplish by just living in the moment. Don’t look behind you. Unless someone yells, “Look out behind you!” Then you should definitely look behind you because there’s a good chance a Frisbee is being thrown at your head or, if you’re in a movie, an attractive teenage vampire is about to attack you.

  Otherwise, don’t look back and don’t spend too much time worrying about the future. Stay in the present. There are a few ways to do that. Stop and smell the roses. Wake up and smell the coffee. Enjoy the sweet smell of success. I guess just keep taking big whiffs of stuff because it seems like the more we smell, the happier we are going to be. You know what I mean.

  Thunderclap: A Short Short Story

  It was a dark and stormy night. The streets were empty. They seemed sad almost and hollow. The wind was howling and the rain was pouring down upon the rooftop so loud that Papa could barely hear the sound of his teakettle. Eventually, the storm passed and normal activity resumed.