My dark little secret rests in a cupboard behind some video tapes. I've kept my secret under wrap for many years now.  Little by little, though, I've left clues.  A picture here, a video carton there.  The truth is … I think Richard Simmons is fantastic!  This is taboo.  I am under 30 and do not weigh 400 pounds.  I am from Southern California and have partied on Sunset Boulevard and have seen movie stars buying toothpaste at Vons.  I cannot say that I was born in a field in a town of 500 where they didn't get MTV.  No, I have to be cool, but I'm not.  I've loved Richard Simmons since I was four years old.   

My relationship with Richard began when he did an aerobic-show early weekday mornings.  I once heard that someone did research on how women come to watch daytime soap operas.  The conclusion was that most women pick a soap when they are teenagers--the same soap their mothers watched.  That proved true in my "All My Children" selection and apparently spilled over to my favorite morning "aerobisizer."  My mother never actually did aerobics but enjoyed watching Richard just the same.  It was like a friend had come to breakfast.  He emerged from behind a curtain and ran onto a lavender stage.  Hair escaped past ears, white tennies under sweat suit (he was tamer back then).  Smile like a spotlight, he shoved his arm out in front of him, waved his hand like he was shooing a fly--"Hello!"  Hello yourself. My mother said, "I just love him!  He's always so cheerful!"  My God, he had won my mother over.  The woman who couldn't be coaxed to smile with a gift of a diamond mine turns giddy-girl for Richard.  

My mother was a QVC addict and spent many hours in front of that home shopping channel with eyes glued to diamonique slowly rotating on velvet squares.  I worried about her.  I worried about her knowing all the names of the QVC salespeople. I would sit in her dark bedroom as she told me the dirt on Jeff, the hottie of QVC.  Much talk went on about his wedding to Judy, the blonde with a boy's cut.  Now Judy doesn't smile or wear her wedding ring and Jeff's off the show.  Mary's having her fourth child and John's only on late night.  I worried that my mom didn't have any non-QVC friends, and then one day she screamed my name from her bedroom.  

I came running in, thinking she was being held at gunpoint.  Her face was sunny, and she pointed at the screen.  "HEL--LOW!"  Oh my God, it was Richard.  I sat where I was.  I don't remember which of my mom's "friends" he was talking to, but he could barely stay in his seat, he was so excited.  He touched the QVC hostess's arm as he explained (cheer-style) about his new "Deal-a-Meal" product where you put the "calorie card" into a folder with pockets to keep track of your daily food intake.  My mother was dialing the phone.  

One thing about Richard is that he cries a lot.  He cries out of sadness, and he cries out of happiness.  Especially when he interviews his clients.  When he's on shows or infomercials they show clips of him interviewing Formerly Big People (F.B.P.'s).  They often sit with their spouses.  Richard wears pastel sweater-vests, hair coiled like a grape vine, fuzzy lighting.  The F.B.P. starts talking about her former body and how she was going to die or couldn't get out of bed or couldn't find love.  Richard's eyes get wet, which makes the F.B.P.'s lip quiver and soon all are crying about "Sweatin' to the Oldies" and being able to see your shoes.  

I'm a sucker for that and so is my mom.  She's an F.B.P.  Didn't have a chance.  Grandma fed her tons of whole milk and cream until in a picture of her at one-year-old she looked like a ball of cream herself. Mom says that one day when she was walking home as a teenager, a man drove by and asked her to dinner because it "looks like you like to eat."  No one's ever said to me that it looks like I like to eat, but my neck gets hot every time I imagine my mom walking home with her books wrapped in her arms and Jackass cutting her down.  

My mom lost over 60 pounds on the "Deal-a-Meal" plan, but more about my secret.  A few years ago, I was living in a bad part of LA.  By the time I got home from work, it was too dark out to go for a run, and I didn’t own an exercise machine.  While I was visiting my mother, she unloaded her “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” tape on me.  “I never use it anyway.”   

I think she got it free with the Deal-a-Meal Plan.  Great!  I could see Richard every day.  As opposed to my mother, I used the tape.  I popped it in after work:  guilty.  I was about to do very silly aerobic moves to peppy 60s music.  When I was little, my mother used to blast K-EARTH in the car.  The all-oldies-all-the-time station.  She’d leave it on when she turned the car off, and when my dad would get in the car next he would turn the key and find himself clutching his ears and reaching for the volume knob.  Dad hated modern music and anything “non-intellectual.”  My sister and I never much cared for Mom's blaring “Wake Up, Little Suzie” and “Splish Splash, I Was Takin’ a Bath,” but we preferred it to Dad’s snobby talk radio.  When he’d turn the key on to roaring “Peggy Sue,” my sister and I would exchange glances and muffle our laughter.   

So there I was at 25 doing the twist with Richard.  The first time I did “Sweatin’ To the Oldies,” I did all the moves, including the horrible hand motions to “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to” in which I air-rubbed my fists to make a crying face.  This obedience to the tape soon stopped.  A girl’s got to draw the line somewhere, even for Richard. I had to salvage some dignity should my secret be discovered.  Surely people would soon find out.  

I went to work feeling a little more energized.  My co-workers said I looked particularly “toned.”  This was LA and people noticed that sort of thing.  Sometimes Mary the payroll lady would ask me how I got into shape.  I was usually able to avoid the question.  “How did you get so slim, Shanti?”  “Oh, I started working out more.”  “Really?  What did you do?”  “Oh, I have a question for you.” (At this point, I would make my professional face, which consists of knit eyebrows, tighter lips, and concerned eyes.)  “Did you get that fax from DMX?  I think I have a good candidate for their executive secretary position; I’m sending over her resume this afternoon.”  Then her own professional face and "Oh, that's great, I'll get the paperwork ready" as she marched off in pumps.  Sigh.  Worked my way out of that one.  Potential knower of my Richard relationship diverted.   

Now, LA is not the town to go to if you want to meet a lot of down-to-earth people.  I spent many a night sitting at a bar and listening to some guy ask my friend if she’s wearing space pants because her ass is out of this world while someone else complained about their leather pants clinging to their 3/4ths of an extra pound of fat.  Naturally, I wanted to fit in.  I tried my hand at complaining about my elderly age of 25 and tried to feel interested in discussions over who had the best car or interior designer.   

When I was little, I developed early.  That meant I was not a little supermodel, running around in trendy clothes that loosely tied in the back.  One day, my tall, skinny friend Kristine ran to her locker, books latched in front of her chest.  "Shanti! I forgot to put a bra on this morning.  I’m so embarrassed!  Can you tell?"  She peeled her book off of her front, and I looked at her thick sweat shirt covering ... covering ... "No Kristine.  I can't tell." Once Kristine's grandparents bought a large swimming pool.  I was at Kristine's house when her grandparents came over to tell her the pool was ready.  I didn't have a swimsuit with me. No problem, Kristine said, I could borrow one of hers.  I don't remember what color that swimsuit was but my hips and breasts poured out of it porn-style.  We sat on the grass in her grandparents' backyard. Kristine wore a blue bikini, slim bottoms and sports bra top.  She patted her concave middle, serious face, "I've got to get rid of this pot belly."  

In Junior High, my best friend Tiggy stood in front of the mirror in the girls' bathroom.  Hair spray permeated the air, and she gazed through the mist at her concrete stomach from every angle.  Sucked it in. Poured it out.  1/2 centimeter rounder.  "I am sooo fat!"  I was 14 and about six inches shorter than her.  Everything was about me, really, and I didn't eat lunch that day or for the next few weeks.

I don't blame Kristine or Tiggy for me feeling fat.  None of us were really fat, but we read "Model" magazine and Mila Jovovich, a budding supermodel, was our age--legs spread, back against a mattress by a pick-up truck.  We never noticed how they posed that fourteen-year-old, just how tiny her legs were, cheeks baby-fatless, lips pouting, sienna red.  In seventh grade, the girl who played a seven-year- old on the sit-com called Small Wonder, said behind my back that I was "too chubby to try out for cheerleading."  I never actually heard her say it, but I've heard it in my head ever since.  No matter what I did, though, my curves were there to stay. At that point, I couldn't have imagined being happy unless I was 110 pounds.  We were all sick about our bodies.  When I was 12, I read a story in a teen magazine where an overweight girl threw up her food in High School and then miraculously stopped worrying about weight as a thin adult.  I'm sure I was on that road myself, but I think Richard Simmons had a hand in helping me accept myself (as goofy as he is).  

Thirteen years later, the receptionist at my office asked me what I had done the night before.  I don’t know why she asked me this.  Maybe she knew I was hiding something.  “I did Richard Simmon’s ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies,’” I said.  She stopped her filing.  A moment of disbelief.  My face sheepish; her smile crooked.  We both started laughing.  I felt like I had just come out of the closet.  

After that day, I openly admitted at work that I was a Richard Simmons fan.  I went to Target and purchased his “Tonin’ Uptown and Downtown” tape (complete with two exercise rubber bands).  On my way out the door to work, I would shamelessly pop in a tape to record a Rosie O’Donnell show with an interview with Richard.  Everyone who interviews Richard always seems to be happy about it.  They all announce his name like “Guess who’s here today?  Ed McMahon with a million dollar check for YOU” -- only it’s Richard, and he runs onto the stage like a ball of lightning or a puppy who never gets visitors.  You can tell how fast he moves because he always wears tank tops with sequins on them.  He runs and hugs the host and kisses audience members and all you really see is fuchsia sparkles trailing behind him.   

Rosie asks him about his sequined tops.  He tells a story about a woman whose job is to make sequined tops for Richard.  He pulls out a sequined top for Rosie.  It’s a pink tank-top with gold sequins creating an outline of an excited Rosie, arms outstretched.  I think Rosie likes it.  She asks him some question, which prompts Richard to proclaim his love for Barbara Streisand.  Rosie is confused and so am I.  I think it’s some kind of admiration for her, but he demands that we believe that he thought he might marry her one day.  Rosie seems a little irritated.   

“Well Richard, you didn’t really expect to marry Barbara Streisand, right?” One more chance; no, he really wants us to think he’s in love with Barbara.   

That interview bothered me for a long time.  One night I dreamed that I was in a house and Richard came walking in.  I was so excited and exclaimed “Richard!  I’m so happy to meet you!  You’re always so cheerful and enthusiastic!”  I wanted a hug, a scream, a sequined ball of light. Instead I got a dirty look and “That’s because I’m flamboyant and gay!” as he threw his arms into the air and stormed out of the room.   

Once on QVC, Richard got in a fight with a big person named Happy. Happy weighed several hundred pounds and played Johnny Depp’s and Leonardo Di Caprio’s mom in “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.”  In the movie, the whole town ridicules her and stands around and stares while she struggles to walk up a flight of stairs to bail her mentally challenged son out of jail.  So while Richard Simmons was on QVC, Happy called in on the air and chastised him, saying his weight loss plan didn’t work.  Richard seemed sad but annoyed.  He told her that you had to be committed to using the weight loss system.  Happy didn’t think it worked, but what she really meant to say was that she hated her life.  Richard picked up on this and said that he told her not to do the movie.  It was the first time that I saw Richard as a real person.  My mother said that Richard’s fun and all, but after a while she wonders if his peppiness wears down or if he’s always that active.  

When I quit my job and moved away to graduate school, I decided to store my Richard Simmons tapes with my other tapes--in full view.  One day, a guy who was interested in me stopped by my apartment.  He was pretty enamored with me at that point, but then he glanced at my tape shelf.  It was like his mouth wouldn’t quite shape the words “You have Richard … you do 'Sweatin'...this … is what you do?”  

“Uh yeah, I like Richard Simmons.”  Good for me.  No excuses.  He said, “I need to buy you a kick-boxing tape.”  Yes, kick-boxing’s definitely cooler. 

That Christmas, my mom got me Billy Blank’s Tae Bo workout.  Suddenly, I was kicking and punching and feeling a lot cooler.  The differences between Billy’s and Richard’s tapes are as follows:  

#1  When I do Richard, I’m one of the thin ones on the tape.  When I do Billy, I realize that I’ll never look like those pretty boys and girls with six pack stomachs and rock asses.  Their thighs are bigger than mine because the muscles have grown like weeds bulging and bloating their skin out.  Their sweat obeys the ridges, bumps over the wrinkles on their concentrating foreheads, slides down what’s left of their breasts, catches the groove of their six packs, weaves back and forth and drops off, bumping their kicking legs.  I hate them.   

#2  Richard loves us.  Richard says he loves us.  Sometimes he works it into his routine.  Step, kick, step, point, “I love YOU!”  Thanks!  Billy doesn’t say he loves us.  He says, “Reach for a power within.”  That’s because by that point we’re all squinting and panting in pain, including the athlete guy in the back row with an ass like two pieces of rounded granite.   

#3  Richard says I’m beautiful.  He says it more than once per video. I need to hear it sometimes.  He says I’m always in his heart, and he serenades me with love songs that we’re aerobisizing to.  "Baby love, my baby love…"  Billy doesn’t say I’m beautiful, and he doesn’t sing to me.  He does say “Hey!  I’m right there with you,” (even though he’s not always working out when he says this) and he says, “Good job!” and “Hey, if you feel tired, take a break, get some water, and get right back into the groove.”   

#4 Richard’s tapes play cheesy 60s music that I now mute in lieu of a C.D.  This means that I have to pay extra attention so that I stay on the same beat.  I wish he’d do a “Sweatin’ to the 80s” tape.  Billy’s tapes play the kick-boxer’s version of elevator music.  When it’s time to punch faster, the music suddenly gets more excited and rapid.      

#5  Richard’s obviously gay and Billy’s obviously not.  I respect Billy and his pecks.  I like him.  I like his eight-minute workout when he says, “You may not have an  hour, you may not have half an hour, but you’ve got eight minutes.  Now, GIVE ME SOME!”  But a gay aerobics instructor is like a gay hair dresser.  They’re just better.  Working out with Richard is more than hopping around to be-bop.  It’s a romance.  And not just with Richard.  In Richard’s tapes, he has musicians that play instruments and sing the 60s songs.  During one set, Richard side-steps to a male guitarist and says coyly, “Well, hello there.”  Later, that same guitarist dances over to him and starts bumping Richard in the butt with his guitar while Richard has his legs spread and is stretching out his arms.  Later on that same tape, there is a stage with a curtain. Each one of the “aerobisizers” comes slinking out from behind the curtain to stripper music.  They have exercise rubber bands in their  hands and they squeeze them across their chest.  During the routine, a woman wearing a pastel leotard looses her sheer wrap-around.  The knot slips and she is otherwise engaged with the rubber bands.  As the pink wrap floats to the floor, everyone laughs.  Later, Richard dances over to the musicians and they stuff money down his pants and his sequined tank top.   

In the last few weeks, I have seen commercials for new Billy and Richard tapes.  I think Billy’s catching on.  His new tapes feature “normal looking” people.  There are old people and young people and six-packers and non-six-packers.  There’s even a man in a wheelchair who “kicks” by thrusting his wheelchair up and down with his arms.  But Billy’s not Richard.  

Richard has a new tape set out that’s geared toward “cutting down your workout time and burning more fat in the process.”  He has three new tapes under the overall title “Blast off the Pounds!”  There’s “Mega-Mix,” “Disco,” and the “Latin” tape.  “Mega-Mix” has the Macarena song, “Disco” has “Shame” and “YMCA,” and “Latin” has “Shake Your Bon Bon.” Richard thinks of everything.  That’s because he loves us, and he thinks we’re beautiful.  He has created “cool weights.”  They’re wrist and ankle weights with "reusable cool inserts" that create “your own personal air conditioner.”

In the infomercial, we see clips from all three of his new videos. There are some interviews with fuzzy F.B.P.'s.  Richard gets dewy-eyed. Then we get a description of the "cool weights."  We see how they work with a long flat ice pack for each that you can freeze and then insert into the ankle and wrist weights.  Then the screen is filled with a full frontal shot of Richard, legs apart, arms out by sides.  He's a smiling doll, hair corkscrewed every which way like tiny haloes.  The "cool weights" cling to his wrists and ankles and blue coolness spreads through his arms and legs, over hips, across shoulders, and finally reaches his pumping heart.  

I'm dialing the phone ...

Author's Biography

Shanti Weiland is currently working on her Ph.D. in English with Creative Writing at University of Southern Mississippi.  

She received her Master's Degree in English with Creative Writing from Northern Arizona University in May 2002 and her Bachelor's Degree in English from University of California, Davis in May 1997.  

Her poetry will be featured in upcoming issues of Poetry Motel, Curbside Review, and Diceybrown.com.

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