Why Working Out to P!nk is F*ckin’ Perfect

Screw Britney. Screw Rihanna, and Katy Perry, and Lady Gaga, and (gasp) Beyoncé. When it comes to female pop workout music, P!nk rules.* No matter what mood you’re in, the petite acrobatic vocalist will get you moving.

I was reminded of this yesterday at my Peloton cycling class in Chelsea. Before I even hopped on my bike, I was in a funk. And not the groovy kind, the smelly kind.

You see, I’d found myself stuck recently, afraid to wipe off the dust on my keyboard and commit words to Word. What if my blog post sucks? What if it’s boring and unfunny and pointless? What if it’s not book worthy? I hadn’t posted in months, and now I was terrified to do so.

This might seem counterintuitive. After all, I just finished writing a book for a publisher based on my other blog, 40 Dates & 40 Nights. Shouldn’t I feel like a major f*cking badass, ready to take on the Internet by storm? I mean, c’mon, I’d finally achieved that holy grail every actor dreams of: VALIDATION!

And yet, every time I sat down with my laptop, I couldn’t bring myself to type a single sentence. I’d click on Firefox, and pretty soon I’d be down a rabbit hole, reading short stories by Clarice Lispector, researching apocalyptic earthquakes, trying to understand why people are religious. Suddenly three hours would pass and it’d be time for my barre class and then I’d be out in Manhattan and how could I possibly think about silly meaningless blog posts with all this crazy life swirling around me? (And cocktails swirling in me.)

But every morning I woke up with the same nagging feeling: WRITE. (also: hangover.) Once again, I’d pull out my lap top, crack my knuckles over it,* and not get to work. Let the cycle of self-admonishment begin.

My spin class rolled around yesterday with yet another blank document on my desktop. As I adjusted the seat in the dark room, a weariness overtook me. Why am I here? Do I even enjoy this anymore? Throughout my unstructured life as an artist, exercise has been pretty much my only constant, an almost sacred space of meditation, discipline, and endrophin-induced joy encouraging creative flow. But lately my workouts had felt more like doing laundry or washing dishes than a blessed communion of mind, body, and spirit.

The lights dimmed and the instructor hopped on her bike enthusiastically.

“In case you guys didn’t know, this is a P!nk ride, so yeah,” she announced unapologetically, then turned on the music.

A pink ride? Does this mean it’ll be supporting breast cancer? Or only include songs that have to do with every five-year-old girl’s favorite color? I wondered. Perhaps it was being sponsored by Vicki’s Secret and we’d all get matching thongs at the end. That would be fun!

I began pedaling to the beat, humming along to the song. Who is this? The vocals weren’t gravelly enough to be Amy Winehouse, and were much too pop-y to be Mary J. Blige, although the lyrics were dealing with family drama. Can we work it out? Can we be a family? I knew the voice, but I didn’t.

Until I did. Within three notes of the second song it hit me — Ohhhhh, it’s P!nk!! (Duh.) I smiled at my obvious oversight, then picked up the speed of my legs. This should be.. cool I guess? I was still in my funk.

My initial thoughts on the ride echoed my early feelings on P!nk’s music – meh. Back when she’d first debuted on the radio waves, I’d been somewhere between milquetoast and irritated by her party anthems.*** When I moved to LA in 2004 she was one of my first Hollywood encounters at a sushi restaurant, and as we threw back sake bombs I remember wishing she was Christina Aguilera.

However, over the past decade I had grown to respect P!nk and her vocal and physical acrobatics, even kinda sorta love her. And with each song of the ride I understood why. On one sprint I’d be ready to kick someone’s a$$ because so what, I’m still a rockstar, and the next I’d be nodding my head on a climb, knowing I needed to keep going. You gotta get up and try…

By the time we’d finished arms, I felt like myself again – back in my body, excited to get to work. The honesty in P!nk’s lyrics moved me. Raw, simple, real, unafraid. Was her music poetry on the level of Leonard Cohen? Did it possess the originality of a Dylan, or the depth of a Joni Mitchell? No. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t good, or relatable, or inspiring.

The second to the last song came on: pretty pretty please, don’t you ever, ever feel, like you’re less than f*ckin’ perfect… I started to cry, realizing that that’s what had been keeping me from blogging these past couple of months: fear of not being perfect. It’s something I’ve struggled with my whole life. Perfectionism. It was the cause of my eating disorder, my anxiety, my writer’s block. Why do we do that? Why do I do that?

As I pedaled through the finish line, I decided right then that I would start posting on my blog again the next day, no excuses. It didn’t matter if what I wrote sucked or was boring or pointless, because at the end of the day, that’s not what it’s about. Every song isn’t going platinum. Every blog isn’t getting turned into a book.

But it is about living fearlessly. About owning your truth, and honing your craft, and taking risks, and being willing to fail. So what if you make a wrong turn or a bad decision, release an annoying song about partying or write a dumb essay about a spin class? Get up and try again. And again and again. It obviously worked for P!nk. It can work for the rest of us.

Damn, it feels good to be back! 🙂

*Okay, fine, all of these awesome ladies kick my ass on the treadmill.

** I didn’t actually do this, but I’ve seen it in so many movies I thought I should add it.

*** 2000, WTF?! We’re getting so old.

For My Mom

 

“No one has had a single greater influence on my life than my mother.” -Me

Three years ago, a friend of my parents passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. At 60, Danielle had been in terrific health- hiking daily, active, social. One day she went to work at her dentist’s office, saw a movie with some friends, went to bed, and then never woke up. It was the day before Thanksgiving. I drove in from Los Angeles that same day to spend the holiday with my family, and my mom told me about it in her bedroom. We both started crying.

Danielle had never been married, and thus her best friend Jim was left to be executor of the estate. Without children to spoil, she’d spent a good deal of her disposable income on one of her passions: clothes. She had a closet Carrie Bradshaw would have envied. A lot of things had never been worn, the tags still hanging from the designer duds. Jim called my mom and told her to come down to see if she wanted anything. “Better to give the clothes to her friends and family to remember her by then sell or donate them,” he explained, “She would have wanted it that way.” My mom returned with several bags full of beautiful items.

A few weeks later on Christmas morning, there were more presents under the tree than usual. Traditionally, we’ve had spending caps on our gift-giving around $100 a person. For a middle class family, this is both reasonable and more than sufficient in spreading cheer. But this year when I went to open the beautifully wrapped presents with my name on it, I found dozens of exquisitely crafted garments. What fun it was trying on the pieces and modeling them for my mom! Danielle’s clothes were given a second life. After the last skirt had been tried on, my mom helped me fold them in my room. “I always wanted to be able to give you a Christmas like this,” she said, starting to cry. “When you were at Lincoln and all of your friends would get all of these amazing clothes…” I began to cry too and hugged her. “Oh Mom, you’ve always given me a great Christmas.”

Now, three years later, I’d like to rephrase that- Mom, you’ve given me so much more than just a great Christmas. It’s hard to even know where to begin, but how about that most basic and awesome of gifts – life. You gave birth to me. Can you believe it?! Well, yes, of course you can, you were pregnant with me for 9 months. You threw up for me, got fat for me, stopped drinking alcohol for me. I mean, talk about the ultimate gift! It’s truly the most spectacular thing that’s ever happened to me, the seed from which everything has blossomed. I know you don’t watch True Blood, but you are my “maker”- I am forever bonded to you. How can I even begin to repay you for something as miraculous as life?

You’ve also given me art. I’m not just talking about the landscape painting that hangs in my living room (although I love that work of yours!), I’m talking about art as a concept. For as far long as I can remember, you’ve cultivated within me a love and appreciation for the arts. At the tender age of 2 and a half you sat me in front of the Taj Majal and tried to make it my first memory – who does that? You took Kevin and I to museums all throughout our childhood, an invaluable introduction to the world of culture. Granted, you may have had to bribe us with Cheerios, but that early exposure proved to have a lasting effect. I ended up studying Art History for goodness’ sake! Oh, and let’s not forget the hundreds, maybe even thousands, of art projects you set up for us. I can’t thank you enough for your early investment in my creativity. My life and career would be so different today without it.

Which brings me to the next thing you’ve given me – opportunity. Yes, simply being born a white middle class American has afforded me more opportunity than 99% of all humans who’ve ever lived. But beyond that, you’ve nurtured in me the belief that with hardwork and patience, I can do anything. You’ve always seen the potential within me, and done everything in your power to support that. When I was 16 years old and had decided I was serious about becoming an actress, you told me if I wanted to graduate high school early and move to Los Angeles you would be right by my side. How many times have I heard other young artists complain about their parents disapproving of their chosen career path? I NEVER had to worry about that. I always knew you were behind me 100%. And when I applied to transfer to UCLA and didn’t get accepted due to some bureaucratic misunderstandings, who called up and straightened things out? Whenever a door has been stuck, you’ve been there to jimmy it open (or if it’s locked, you’ve helped me find a new one.)

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention another valuable thing you’ve gifted me with – health. Your genes gave me a strong, able body with all the working parts: two eyes, a nose, legs, arms, a pumping heart. But you also taught me the importance of nutrition and exercise. When other kids’ parents were taking them to McDonald’s, you were feeding us home cooked meals with vegetables from our garden (no matter how much Kevin and I begged for a happy meal). You gave us balanced daily meals consisting of real food, not all the junk you find in the center aisles of grocery stores. You also forced us to go outside, be active, and PLAY by restricting our television and computer time. It may have seemed unfair back then, but now I could not be happier for it. Ten years after flying the nest, I continue to exercise everyday, and maintain a delicious, healthy, fast-food free diet. All thanks to you.

I could go on and on and on with all of the things you have given me over the last 28 years, but I’m going to try and keep this under 1000 pages. So the last thing I want to thank you for giving me is perspective. I am who I am today because of the values and beliefs you have instilled in me. You have taken me around the world and opened my eyes to other cultures, walks of life, possibilities. The depth of your heart knows no boundaries, and you have given it freely to your family, to your art, to others. Instead of worshipping the emptier things praised by our culture – money, beauty, fame, sex, power – you have pursued truly meaningful values – compassion, humility, honesty, love, creativity, empathy. By following your example, I am developing a rich life of my own, not in the material sense, but spiritually, mentally, poetically. I could not have asked for a better role model in shaping my perspective of the world.

So Mom, this Mother’s Day, I just want to say it once more – thank you for everything that you’ve given me. Amazing clothes included.