Free Stirring the Pot by Jenny McCarthy

could be her? However you interpret the comment, it was no compliment. He’d just told me I looked old.
    Look, it’d be the pot calling the kettle black for sure if I were to suggest that we shouldn’t speak our minds. I make my living stating my opinion on national TV; I certainly enjoy the freedom of speech. But had no one told this kid to not say out loud everything that crossed his mind? That telling a woman she looks old is really, really impolite?
    You’d think I’d have a thicker skin, but I’d had a crap day and something about that offhand and unkind remark just unhinged me. I could see the
Star
headline: “Jenny McCarthy Loses It Buying a Case of Two-Buck Chuck.” I couldn’t risk tears in public (a hazard of a publicly lived life), so I left the wine and the pretzels and ran from the store. I must have looked a little out of my mind, waving my hand around anddesperately jabbing the button on my keys to try to make the lock chirp that would remind me where I’d parked my car.
    The parking lot was crowded, and I could see the telltale glimmer of recognition in more than a few pairs of eyes.
If there is any God at all
, I thought,
they too will think I’m Jennie Garth, and she and her aging will become the cocktail party gossip this weekend instead of the behavior being attributed to me!
    My car wasn’t cooperating—no chirp chirp. I hadn’t had a good cry in so long that I couldn’t be sure how big the tsunami would be if I unleashed it. So I panicked. I ran down the street, wild-eyed, looking for a place I could hide.
    I knew there was a park a couple of blocks away and sprinted toward it. This involved crossing a major street and therefore a good number of supportive messages yelled to me out the windows of air-conditioned cars and over squealing brakes. This was Los Angeles, after all, and Angelenos are known for their patience and kindness behind the wheel.
    Gasping for breath, I got to the park and looked around for a secluded bench. Bad luck. This being Los Angeles, every bench or patch of grass was already occupied by homeless people stroking mangy cats and/or arguing with imaginary friends. I couldn’t hang onone second more. So I let it rip. Right there in the open. I burst into tears and shook my fists at the sky. I walked back and forth listing all the reasons why my life sucked, in between new bouts of wailing.
    One benchwarmer who wore a rope for a belt, one red mitten, and a toothless grin yelled, “Keep going, sister. You tell ’em. You tell ’em good.” It was the most supportive thing I had heard all week. Which only made me cry harder.
    Because I’ve since bothered to look into it, I now know that I was just about to experience a physiological phenomenon not unlike having an orgasm. Crying, it turns out, releases endorphins, which will ultimately make you feel better. Exhausted, too, but a peaceful, satisfied exhaustion, like after a productive roll in the sheets.
    And that’s what happened. After a few minutes of bone-rattling sobbing, the waterworks slowed down to a trickle. I paced a little more and wiped my snot with my sleeve. I calmed down. I felt just a little bit refreshed. The drama passed, and I regained a little bit of perspective. Old to the little prick at Trader Joe’s probably meant twenty-five, I reminded myself. And I’d bet that actresses older than me get that kind of double take, too, and maybe someone tells them they couldn’t be Jenny McCarthy because they are just tooold to be me. I’ll bet Suzanne Somers gets that sometimes, and she’s the poster woman for aging gracefully and happily and sexily. I saw a little ray of sunshine push through my cloudy mood.
    My friend with the red mitten saw it, too. She called out to me, “That’s better, girl. You tell ’em good. I think you should have won that dance thing on the TV for sure.”
    The Jennie Garth mistake again. “You’re confusing me with someone else,” I started to say proudly. But then I