Finding It: And Finally Satisfying My Hunger for Life by Valerie Bertinelli Page A

be my age and you’re delighted to be able to get out of bed in the morning,” my mom cracked.
    I asked my mom how old she was.
    “Thirty-nine,” she said.
    “Good, that makes me about twelve,” I said.
    We reminisced about my previous birthdays. For my sixteenth, my mom got me a cake with pink elephant candleholders that I thought were cool. My eighteenth birthday had been a surprise party. I got married less than two weeks before my twenty-first birthday and spent my actual birthday ignoring the voice in my head that asked, “What the hell did you just do?”
    At thirty, I was pregnant with Wolfie. Then I celebrated my fortieth with an all-girls party in Las Vegas, my least favorite city. But my marriage was winding down and I wanted to have some fun. I drove there in my new convertible, my “oh-my-God-I’m-forty car,” as I called it. I’d bought it to satisfy a desire for more options in my life. I needed a change. I didn’t find it in that car. It took a few more years to find those new options for change.
    We were talking about cars when the waiter brought our starters. I ate half of my yummy pasta, then gave the rest to Tom. Within seconds, the waiter returned to the table to ask if everything was all right with my dish, offering to bring me another if I didn’t like it. I explained that the pasta had been heavenly, but those few bites were all I needed.
    I couldn’t believe those words came from me. But I had a different outlook these days, whether talking about age or pappardelle alla buttera. For the most part, I took what I needed, not all that I wanted—except at the end of the meal when the waiter came to the table with a birthday cake. As I told everybody, not only did I need a slice of cake, I
wanted
a big one.

Notes to Myself

Someone, obviously not a fan, said, “Hey, wake up. It’s not all about food.” I was, like, Duh, but no one told me until I was forty-eight years old.
If I had to be reincarnated as food, I would choose Swiss cheese. It’s the holiest.
One more thing to remember. Change comes from the inside. It’s often the last thing you’re going to see when you look in the mirror. So be patient.

Chapter Nine
The Clean Spot on the Ceiling
    The next time Tom and I were in New York City, I was already sick when we landed at the airport. I got even sicker as we drove into the city and went straight to the hotel, where I thought about crawling into bed but instead realized I had fifteen minutes to freshen up and go attend a lunch for UNICEF at Michael’s, a star-packed restaurant where the beautiful people dined while I coughed into my napkin for ninety minutes.
    “Are you going to see a doctor?” someone at the table asked.
    “No, I’m fine,” I said. “It’ll clear up.”
    The following afternoon I taped a segment for Rachael Ray, and the next day
Ladies Home Journal
hosted a lunch in my honor. Around that time, something had happened in the ongoing saga about New York Attorney General Elliot Spitzer, and everyone was talking about the latest development, including me. Between coughs and sneezes, I offered an opinion to anyone whowould listen. At one point, I sneezed right on columnist Michael Musto.
    “You should see a doctor,” a publicist said.
    “I’m okay,” I said, wiping my nose.
    I really wasn’t. I knew the best thing to do whenever I begin to feel run down or sick is to stop for a couple of days and rest. But I didn’t have time—or so I told myself.
    My body didn’t care about my appointment book, though. After dinner, we went back to the hotel and I took a bath to see if I could steam some of the crud out of me. I came out of the bathroom and told Tom it hadn’t worked and he should probably call a doctor. He was ecstatic. He had been urging me to see a doctor for a week or more, long before we left L.A.; and as much as he hated to see me sick, he loved feeling like he had been right all along.
    I swear, he was almost gloating as he dialed the doctor