I next checked out Mindy’s page, always a source of entertainment. Sure enough, it did not disappoint. There were new photos of her in various costumes, and a link to a video from the last show of the season. She had once again performed a parody commercial for an adult diaper for busy executives who didn’t have time to go to the bathroom. The product, Power Pads, would inflate in the middle of a meeting. Though I’d seen this bit before, I never tired of watching it.
The scene opened with Mindy in a dark, conservative, business suit, arguing a case before a packed courtroom. When the judge, guest star Will Ferrell, suggested taking a recess, Mindy waved his request away.
“I don’t need a recess, Your Honor! I’m ready to go!” Then she closed her eyes, and her pants inflated to a ridiculous size while a voice-over said, Time is money, so don’t piss it away! Power Pads, for the on-the-go who-have-to-go—but have no time. The sketch closed with Will Ferrell’s pants ballooning as he yelled, “Let’s all go!” to the camera.
I watched the sketch one more time, laughed quietly, then clicked on another link: Extreme Makeover: Home (Crystal Meth Lab) Edition. This bit featured Mindy as a hyperactive, type-A guru making over a home-based crystal meth lab. “Working from home is always a challenge!” Mindy, hands on hips, explained to a fat trailer trash couple and an ominous-looking Hispanic man with dark sunglasses, “This is more than a meth lab; this is your home! And we’re going to make it your castle!”
I swallowed another laugh and shook my head. There she was, Mindy, our little pixie, who didn’t actually speak until she was almost four years old, who didn’t actually have any nonimaginary friends other than Karen until she was six—on the Internet, on TV every Saturday night, in magazines, on websites, closer to famous than almost famous. How this all happened, how she went from math club president to this and how I felt about it, I wasn’t sure, but there she was, my little buddy.
I stared at my daughter’s face for a moment, remembered how she would make me howl with impersonations of her teachers, her mother, me, even Ethan, then turned off my laptop, and reluctantly returned to the road atlas. I had some more work to do.
Driving two, maybe three hours a day seemed about the best we could manage. In addition to Indianapolis and Louisville, our schedule included stops in Knoxville, and then Asheville, North Carolina. Once I reached Asheville, I planned to make a final and frantic Sherman-esque march to the sea and Charleston. Factoring weather delays, traffic, Ethan meltdowns, my increasingly active bladder, and possibly, hopefully, stops at local attractions, I figured on arriving in Charleston by Thursday—Friday, at the absolute latest.
The second half of the trip, the drive up north, wasn’t nearly as well planned out. I studied the map, traced a route, and then put the atlas away. I couldn’t bring myself to think that far ahead. Just take the next step.
I brushed my teeth and gave myself a long-overdue once-over in the bathroom mirror. Still tall, still thin. My blue eyes, I noted, were now a dull, indiscriminate rainy-day color. Was my nose always this big? And my hair, the gray was spreading like a contagion. I was, at fifty-seven, an old man getting older. A line from some required reading book (Gatsby? Fitzgerald?) came to mind: How did you go bankrupt? Two ways: gradually, then suddenly. The same could be said about growing old. I stared at myself, took serious stock: John Nichols, ex-basketball player, ex-author, ex-philanderer, ex-husband, ex-high-school English teacher.
“A. Lot. Of. Exes,” I said, and shut the light off.