I'm Not Gonna Lie (5 page)

Then they have special devices that make putting your clothes on easier. I found this tool called a “buttonhook/zipper pull” that has a wire on it that you slip through the buttonhole of your shirt and then you pull it so you don't have to fumble with the button to open your shirt. You just hook the thing through and pull. Works with a zipper, too. I guess you put it through the other way and the thing buttons your shirt.

Actually, this doesn't sound so bad.

As long as I don't forget where I put it . . .

The bottom line is, this place is for old people. If you want to appear young, you cannot get caught going into a medical supply store. It's worse than if you get caught going into an Asian massage parlor. It's tricky to pull this off, because sneaking into a medical supply store is only half the battle. You also have to sneak
out.

You can usually control going in. That part's not bad. You just have to look around, make sure the coast is clear, flip your collar up, pull your ball cap down, and run like hell. But coming out? That's the problem. You have no control. You don't know what's going on out there. You have no idea who might be outside walking by, lurking, getting ready to bust you.

“George? Is that you? Yes, it is. George Lopez. How about that?”

“Yes. Hi, there. Hello. What a surprise. I haven't seen you in a while. You're looking great, yes, very trim and fit.”

“Did you just come out of that medical supply store?”

“Me? No.”

“It looked like you did.”

“Oh, see, I came
through
the medical supply store. I was en route.”

“En route? From where?”

“The Asian massage parlor. I'm very tight. Muscles bulging. Need to loosen up—”

“What's in that bag? Oh, wow. I don't believe this. Compression socks.”

“They're for my aunt. She has bad circulation. And later on she's gonna hold up a bank. By the way, you look like hell.”

As long as we're on the subject of feet and my cozy compression socks, I have another confession. This one's even weirder.

As we've established, when you turn fifty, everything starts to go. I've already admitted that I dye my hair. But white hair does not stay confined to the hair on your head. For example, my nose hairs are turning white. I trim them every day. And when I see a white hair popping out of my nose like a little snowy weed, I go right after it.

A lot of times I'll notice a new one when I'm driving. I'll catch sight of it in the rearview mirror.
Pop
. The little sucker will just appear. It drives me crazy, because the older you get, the stronger your nose hairs become. I'm not sure why. There must be some scientific reason. But once a nose hair grows long enough for you to see it sticking out like a little white tail, you know it will be a bitch to pull out. One good yank will not do it. It often takes several. And even one nose hair pull will make you cry.

To yank those things out, you really need a tool. Some kind of implement. A nose hair extractor. I should invent something like that. How great would this be? You insert a tiny button into your fingertip—have it embedded in there like one of those electronic chips you put under your dog's skin so you can track him if he wanders off—then you hit the button and a tiny nose hair extractor shoots out. Flies right out of your finger so you can remove those nasty little nose hairs on the go. That would be amazing. I'm gonna patent that.

By the way, it's not just my nose hairs that are turning white.

My pubes, too.

Sprouting white as Santa's beard. Like a snow bush. I dye that area, too. I cannot allow people to see me—even in the privacy of my bedroom—and say, “Who are you? You're not George Lopez. George Lopez does not have long white sinewy nose hairs and a snowy white pubic area. No. That's not George Lopez. Or if it is, I have to say, what happened to you?”

Now back to the confession. And this has nothing at all to do with vanity.

I paint my toenails.

And I'm proud of it.

At the moment—I'm looking at them right now—I have painted my toenails black. And they are looking
sharrrp.

Yes, black. Well, a shade of black. I would call this a deep midnight black, not a subtle, soft black that you could pass off as a navy blue or charcoal gray. I am aware of all of the various shades. There are dozens.

Why do I paint my toenails?

Two reasons.

First, as I mentioned, my feet are important to me. You get old, your toes get beat up, your nails get chipped and cracked and ugly and messed up. So I paint my toenails to protect them.

Second, my toes look awesome painted.

Hey, a lot of guys do it.

At least, a lot of guys I know.

The first guy who told me he painted his toenails was Shaquille O'Neal. Yes,
that
Shaquille O'Neal. All seven feet, three hundred fifty pounds of him. I thought, “If Shaq paints his toenails, not only is there nothing wrong with painting your toenails; painting your toenails is cool.” So, yes, if Shaq paints his toenails, I'm gonna paint mine. And if you have a problem with that, I'm gonna tell Shaq that you think he's a pussy because he paints his toenails.

I don't paint them myself. That would be weird. I go to a nail salon. Same place Shaq goes to.

First time I went there, I figured I'd just get a pedicure. I wanted to go slow, take it a step at a time. I didn't think about putting on any polish. When the pedicure lady finished, she said, “You want color?”

I said, “No. No color.”

She shrugged and said, “Shaquille O'Neal, he come, he put color. He put black.”

I said, “Shaq put on black?”

“Yes. Mr. Shaquille put on black.”

“You know what? Do that. Give me the same thing Shaq gets. Put black.”

“Once you go black, you never go back. Hahahaha!”

She went to work. She took her time, applied the black toenail polish like an artist with a tiny brush. When she was finished, I stared at my feet for about thirty seconds. I felt strange. It felt as if I were looking at somebody else's feet. I wiggled my toes just to be sure.

“You like?”

“You know what?” I said. “It's all right.”

That was fourteen years ago. I've been painting my toenails ever since. And I've branched out from black. I've experimented with silver and purple and even veered off a single color and tried designs. I've gone with sparkles and swirls and some spots and crackles. After all my experimentation, I always end up going back to a solid color. Those other toenail designs are too feminine. Painting my toenails seems totally natural now. I can't imagine my piggies without polish. I've become a toenail-painting fool.

I know. It seems crazy. You never would've thought that I, George Lopez, would paint my toenails and actually like the way my feet look. I never would've thought that, either.

When you turn fifty, you shouldn't be afraid to try new things. It's time to expand your thinking. Shake things up.

Some advice.

Before you go into the box, think outside the box.

WHEN
you turn fifty, people assume that you can't possibly date a younger woman. White hair, young woman? No. Doesn't fit. People don't get it. And they can be so rude. I have a friend, a young actress—call her Lindsey—whom I've been mentoring. I've been giving her advice, trying to guide her in business and in life. Lindsey is young, very attractive, and tiny. If you saw me walking down the street with her and you allowed your mind to go to that “is he dating her?” place, you'd think I was dating a toddler. That's how young she looks. But most people refuse to go there. They just
assume.

“Oh, hello. Is this your daughter?”

The possibility that I could be romantically involved with a woman that young and that attractive blows their minds. And they don't even give me a chance to introduce her or engage them in conversation. I would prefer this:

“Oh, hello. How are you? Sharon, this is Lindsey.”

“Nice to meet you, Lindsey. And how do you know George?”

That's better than people making a huge leap. Then either Lindsey or I have the opportunity to respond appropriately: “We've been friends forever,” or, “We're dating,” or, “We met five minutes ago at Cheetah's. She gave me a lap dance.” I hate people getting up in my face and rudely asking, “Is this your daughter?”

We've become a country of know-it-alls. I think it's because of all of the information instantly available to us with the tap of a finger. If I'm sitting in a restaurant with a friend trying to enjoy a nice quiet lunch, people have no problem snapping a picture of me with their smartphones. That drives me crazy. I will never turn away a request for a picture or an autograph if somebody asks me. But people who sneak pictures of me without asking and then post them on the Internet piss me off.

And it makes it so much harder to lie.

“Where are you, George?”

“At the car wash. Then I'm gonna go pick up the dry cleaning and maybe hit a bucket of balls—”

“Really? I just saw on Twitter that you're at Cheetah's, sitting in the front row. ‘Hey, guess who's in the next booth? Hashtag Georgelopez.'”

Social media, man. Suddenly everyone's a reporter.

It really messes you up.

Even if you are a gifted liar, born with a poker face, like me.

•   •   •

ONCE
I stopped lying, everything changed.

Including my relationships with women.

When I was younger, I never did well with women. I don't know what it was. Maybe it was because I used to be incredibly shy and insecure. Even so, I wasn't terrible-looking, and I always tried to dress nice. It didn't matter. I could not get a date. Not one. Zero. Women just didn't find me attractive. I couldn't get laid at a women's prison.

I tried. I went out with friends, went to bars, clubs, concerts. I looked for women. I was on the prowl. But nothing ever happened.

One time, in the eighties, I went to a bar with some friends. We found a table, ordered drinks, and started pounding them back. The room got hot and smoky and I started to feel sweaty and a little buzzed. The air smelled of sex. People looking for it. People willing to give it up. The deejay cranked the music so loud you could feel the bass vibrating in your gut. My friends all got up and moved toward the dance floor. Each one found a partner and paired off. I sat alone at our table, watching everybody else, nursing a beer, feeling empty.

I scanned the room. That was when I saw her, sitting by herself, a few tables away—a woman about my age. A vision. The kind of vision you see lurking around a corner in one of the
Alien
movies. To put it kindly, this woman was very unattractive. Of course, she had other qualities. She was also fat.

Perfect.

I was sick of getting shot down. I was done with good-looking women checking me out, sticking their noses up, and turning away. I had set the bar too high. In order to get into the game, I needed to lower my standards. If you swing for the fences on every pitch, you'll only strike out. You have to start by hitting singles. Just get on base. Then you can slide into home.

I polished off my beer, stood up, and strolled coolly over to her table.

“Hello,” I said.

I gave her my best, widest smile.

She swiveled her head in my direction. Close up, she actually looked scarier than she did from across the dark bar. Her lips parted to reveal fangs. I jumped back.

“Hi, there. So, yes, I was wondering,” I said. My voice cracked and then squeaked. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She plopped a meaty arm over the back of the chair next to her. She ran her eyes up and down me slowly, as if she were scanning me at airport security. She parted her lips again and her fangs appeared in full and rested on her lip. I think I saw smoke coming out of her nose.

“No, thanks,” she said.

I blinked. I coughed. I swallowed.

“Excuse me?” I said. “I didn't hear what you said. Loud in here.”

“I'm good,” she said. “I'm waiting for my friends.”

She grunted and swiveled her scaly head away.

“Oh, okay, fine, great, I'll just, you know . . . I'm a little surprised, but, yes, cool, not a problem, very nice meeting you; enjoy molting—”

I slunk back toward my table, looking for a way to disappear, hoping that a hole would suddenly open in the floor so I could dive in and flee. As I groped for my table like a blind man, I thought, “Unbelievable.
She
turned me down? Mothra said no? How can that be? I know how: I'm a loser. No. That's not true. I'm the biggest loser in this bar. It's official. I'm the worst dude in the room.”

When I look back at that night and think about the lull in my dating life, that short twenty- to thirty-year period, I see another guy. I was a different person. I lacked confidence. I somehow felt
less
than everybody else. And I was so shy that I scared women off. My grandmother always used to tell me, “Shies don't get shit.” She was right, but at that time knowing I was shy made me feel even shier. That's the main reason I couldn't get a date. Women wanted no part of me. I turned them off. I'm talking about
all
women, even those who were so desperate that they would date anyone who walked upright and didn't drool. Except me.

Everything changed when I turned fifty. I experienced an attitude shift—very simple and basic. Since I had arrived at an age that was closer to death than not, I decided first to chill, to slow down, to take it easy, and not to get agitated over little, insignificant things. Second, I decided to live my life my way, to follow my instincts and not be so eager to do what other people said.

I applied all of this to my relationships with women. I refused to become one of those sad fifty-year-old dudes you see sitting alone at the end of the bar. You know who I mean. There's always one pathetic old dude nursing a drink, playing with his cocktail napkin, looking lost. For one thing, you should never go to a bar alone at fifty. You need to travel with a pack of dudes, no matter what your age. And it's important to monitor how you look. Dudes in their fifties walk a tightrope, style-wise. You put on the wrong clothes and you fall right off. You've seen these guys. They're trying to look young, or hip, or at least relevant. They sit at the bar wearing mom jeans and a sport jacket with patches and maybe a scarf. Besides the sad doe-eyed look that creeps across their Botoxed faces, their drink is the giveaway. It's always an old guy's drink, a Manhattan or a highball or some cocktail the twenty-five-year-old bartender doesn't even know how to make. The world is zipping by and this poor guy is standing still. You see him fingering his iPhone, trying to figure out how to send an Instagram. Not his fault. Technology comes at you in a blink. There's always something new you have to learn, and our fifty-year-old brains don't move as fast as they used to. Ten years ago he would've been able to handle Instagram, no problem. Now he's sitting in a bar and he's clueless, holding the thing upside down and sideways, shaking it, trying to get it to work.

When you turn fifty, you have to learn to accept the natural flow of life. You must accept who you are.

And, brothers, you have to accept your penis.

If you live long enough to get to the point that your penis doesn't work, so be it. Allow it to stay flaccid, in honor of its previous service. You should not force it to stand at attention. Let's celebrate this honorable member. It's fine. And don't worry about taking the little blue pill. Women understand. If a woman would refuse a fake Louis Vuitton purse, she should refuse a fake erection.

A lot of dudes use enhancement—call it Hamburger Helper, well, Hot Dog Helper, I guess—and they don't tell their wives. The wife thinks, “Oh, my God, he's as vibrant at fifty-four as he was at twenty-four. Of course, he always seems to need an hour notice.”

Just accept it. Be man enough to say to your wife, “My penis worked for forty years; we had some great times; we traveled; we made love all over the world. So let's shake hands, get the same haircut, and move on.”

I'm into younger women. It has nothing to do with their supple, hard bodies. Well . . .

They're more open to new things. They're not set as cement in their ways. Older women come with too much baggage. In the relationship with my current girlfriend, I think it's so much better that I'm the one with the baggage. I don't have a big enough place for two people's baggage.

At this point, the relationship with my girlfriend is pretty new. I have yet to experience that feeling of dread that comes over you when you wake up in the morning, turn over, see this person sound asleep next to you, and say to yourself, “Look at her. So beautiful, so peaceful. I wish she would leave.”

I've not felt that way. Not yet.

We're pretty compatible. She's young, likes to stay up late and sleep in. I'm old; I like to get up early and play golf. This is ideal. Although like most women, she hates golf.

I can't figure out why that is.

I just know that when a woman sees her husband or boyfriend heading out the door with his clubs, she says, “You're not playing golf, are you?”

“Well, yes, I am.”

“Again?”

“I play every Sunday; you know that—”

“Fine. Go. Have fun.
Enjoy.
”

I don't get it. What did we do? We're going to a golf course, not to a strip club.

For some crazy reason women feel threatened by golf. It's almost as if golf is another woman. Or worse: They think our relationship to golf matters more than our relationship with them. Or maybe it's this simple: Women see that we have a good time playing golf, which means we're not having a good time with them. They can't stand the thought that we might actually have some fun without them. Maybe if we lied.

“George, where are you going? You look miserable.”

“I feel miserable. I have to play
golf
.”

“Again?”

“I know, right? What a pain in the ass. If I didn't have to do this, I wouldn't. You know that. I'd much rather have brunch with you and then go shopping for shoes.”

In every relationship I've been in, when it comes to golf, there's always that terrible moment of truth. You have to brace yourself for this question: “What do you guys talk about out there on that golf course for five hours?”

I don't want to lie. I want to tell the truth. I want to say, “Well, pussy, mainly.”

But that would only fuel their hatred of golf. In some cases, God forbid, it might motivate them to take up the sport so that they could
play with us.
When my ex-wife threatened to take up golf, I told a friend that I would cut off my arms so I wouldn't have to play.

The truth is, we don't really talk about pussy that much. When we play golf, we talk about . . .

Let me think.

Actually, we don't talk. We really don't. That's another reason we don't want to play with women: We don't want to talk when we play golf. We don't want to talk at all. We just want to play. In silence. Without thinking about what to say, or what we think, or worst of all, what we
feel
. The hell with that. This is the hardest thing for women to understand. When I go out with three guys to play golf, not only don't we talk very much; ninety percent of the time we're not even together. We're off on our own, hitting our shots, alone, by ourselves, not thinking about anything but golf. My definition of bliss.

Even my young, understanding, very compatible girlfriend can't stand that I play golf. Usually I sneak out of the house when she's still asleep. By the time I get back, she's just getting up and we're ready to begin our day. But one morning, I took a shower, slipped into my golf clothes, and slowly, quietly, on tiptoes, started to head out the door. I heard her rustling in bed. I turned back and saw her sitting up, her eyes wide-open.

“Hey,” I whispered. “I'm going out.”

She took a moment to look me over. Finally, it registered that I had on my golf clothes. She blew out a funnel of air that hit me like a tornado and roared like an oncoming train,
“Nooo!”

My head snapped back from the force of her scream. “I'm just . . . playing golf. . . . I'll be back in a few hours—”

“Nooooo!”

I can't think of one thing that would cause me to freak out the way my girlfriend does over my playing golf. Oh, I've had reasons to go nuts. But I've been cool. I've held back. Call it my new after-fifty attitude. For argument's sake, here's a reason that might've have caused other people concern. Put up a red flag, so to speak.

One night when we were out—after we'd been dating awhile and things started heating up—she said that if our relationship was to go any further, I would have to share her affections. She reached into her purse and an adorable Chihuahua puppy poked her head out. My girlfriend nuzzled the dog. The dog squealed and barked happily and licked her face. I had to admit the dog was pretty damn cute. My girlfriend lifted the dog all the way out. The dog had on a pink dress.