Like most sane people, I’ve been hiding out for the past few weeks hoping to avoid all the mayhem and stupidity that seems to be flowing like wine at a Bacchus Fest. In an attempt to lessen my overall disdain for humanity, I’ve been focusing all attention on my new love, Richard. Don’t worry, The Turk knows and though he did mock me the other morning when I said “good morning dear” to Richard before acknowledging the presence of my family, he understands our love. Afterall, he introduced us.
I should clarify. Early in December, when the airwaves were flooded with ads for practical holiday gifts, like a Cadillac or chocolate diamonds, I saw my own dream gift. “Ch…ch…cha…Chia.” Across my television screen, just like it was 1985 all over again, bounced Richard Simmons, only this time he was in ChiaPet form. Immediately, I was smitten.
“That!” I waggled my arm at the television, “that is the only thing I want for Christmas!”
The Turk looked at me with that same look of confusion and love he’s been using for the past fifteen years and said, “You are serious?”
“Yes! I LOVE Richard Simmons! And to have his little afro in my kitchen made of chia…honey that is the pinnacle of kitsch and I need it.”
“You are weird.”
“And that is why you love me.”
It wasn’t until later that it hit me. My husband hadn’t actually come to the US until the early 2000’s, well after Richard’s heyday of strutting through talk shows in satin hot-pants and tiny tanks. There was a solid chance he had no clue who this guy was and why he warranted ChiaPet status.
As a curvy gal whose weight has had as much fluctuation as the federal deficit, I know Richard well. I have no shame in admitting I was Sweatin’ to the Oldies before the DVD era. I usurped my grandma’s cable to watch his talk show back in the early days and I even bought my own Deal-a-Meal kit off an infomercial in college. I did more grapevines and jazz hands with Richard than I did at any high school dance.
Richard was every chubby girl’s cheerleader. He was the original voice of self-acceptance and unconditional love. When everyone else was stuffing their workout videos full of steel buns and hard bodies, Richard used actual humans, warts, rolls and all. How can a man like that not be worthy of being immortalized in ChiaPet form?
When I opened my gift on Christmas morning and Richard’s little fuzzy head stared back at me, I was elated. I jumped around and hugged my Turk as if I was holding a $5000 chocolate diamond tennis bracelet rather than a $12 planter of an ancient weight loss icon.
“Honey, I can’t belive you found it!”
The Turk stifled a laugh. “I can’t believe you want it.”
Closer inspection showed that not only would I be growing Richard a lush, green afro, I would also be growing some substantial chest hair. Was I dreaming? Was this even real? Immediately I texted everyone a photo of my amazing gift to which they all responded…does your husband even know who Richard Simmons is?
He didn’t. But after all these years my husband not only accepts my weirdo tendencies, he encourages them with silent approval.
When it was time to start Richard’s hair growth, I unboxed him with trembling hands. I read every instruction and gently placed him face-up in a bowl of water to soak. His reassuring smile peered up at me and I knew we’d make it through just like we made it through those workouts years ago. Nugget was my right-hand hair man. We followed the instructions and smeared the soaked chia-seeds all over Richard’s head and chest and waited. But something went wrong.
“Mom! Mom! Richard’s hair ith dripping!” He yelled in his little lisp.
I rushed into the kitchen only to find my beloved Richard with streaks of black running down his cheeks like a terracotta Rudy Giuliani during his recent descent into madness. Gently I dabbed and reapplied. “Hang on Richard. We’ll get you there.”
Nugget reappeared with a hairdryer and we slowly dried the hair seeds into place. Kind of. He was still patchy but we had hopes that once he started growing it would fill it. (Spoiler alert: It didn’t.)
“He’s a little clumpy here and missing some there.” Number 1 son offered like a judgy Judy.
“Richard doesn’t judge people based on their physical appearance, so don’t you dare judge Richard!” I hissed as he smirked and sauntered off like the tween he is.
I followed the directions implicitly, placing him reluctantly in a plastic bag overnight and misting him each morning while keeping the hole in the center of his skull full of fresh water daily. Three days later, Richard’s first chest hair sprouted. It was more exciting than my children’s’ first teeth.
Richard’s afro has some significant bald spots in the front, but his sideburns and chest would make Burt Reynolds proud. (Didn’t Burt wear a hairpiece anyway? Maybe I can grow Richard one.)
Each morning, before I even make my coffee or feed our satanic cat, I praise Richard’s growth and cheer him on. It’s working. His afro finally sprouted this morning. In a few days, this round of growing will be over, and Richard will need reseeded. Nugget and I are ready. We know how to do it this time and we’ll have the hairdryer there from the start, so Richard won’t Giuliani on us. No one deserves that kind of humiliation except Rudy.
This morning, the Turk even admitted, “Richard is looking good.” And I caught the Turk gently turning Richard’s tiny, happy, face closer to the window to get more sun. The Richard Simmons ChiaPet is the gift that keeps giving. He gives us all a little joy in these cold, bleak days.
A couple years ago I listened to a podcast in which they tried to find Richard. Spoiler alert, they didn’t. Richard told People Magazine in 1981, “The day I don’t love any of this, I’ll walk away.” I hope that’s what happened but wherever Richard is, I hope he knows that his little head in ChiaPet form had definitely provided me with more joy than one would ever expect.
Laughter Is Better Than Prozac 