New Me

New Me

by Mary Marcus

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Overview

New Me by Mary Marcus

Harriet is floundering. She's in her early forties, her kids have gone to college, her marriage feels empty, her cable TV cooking show has lost its sense of inspiration, and she longs to leave the West Coast for New York. Then one day she meets Lydia, a gorgeous woman in her late twenties. Lydia reminds her so much of herself a decade or so past, and her husband, who hardly likes anything, likes Lydia as well. It slowly dawns on Harriet that Lydia could be the answer to everything that's ailing her. All she needs to do is turn Lydia into "the new me."Reminiscent of the work of Susan Isaacs and Nora Ephron, THE NEW ME is a witty, poignant, perceptive, and beautifully written novel about change and the price of becoming who you want to be.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781611881387
Publisher: Story Plant
Publication date: 05/20/2014
Pages: 219
Product dimensions: 4.80(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.70(d)

About the Author

Mary Marcus was born and raised in Louisiana but left for New York after graduating from Tulane. She worked for many years in the advertising and fashion industries for Neiman Marcus, Vogue, Lancôme, Faberge, and San Rio Toys where she worked on the Hello Kitty brand. Marcus’ short fiction has appeared in North Atlantic Review, Karamu, Fiction, Jewish Women’s Literary Journal and The New Delta Review among others. She lives in Los Angeles and the East End of Long Island.

Read an Excerpt

It’s not surprising that I met Lydia at yoga. It was the only place I went regularly other than work and the farmer’s market. She put her mat down next to mine and we smiled at each other, the way yoga people do.

I took up practicing in the summer before the boys entered their senior year of high school. I heard it helped you sleep and if I hung around the house at the dinner hour cooking and serving, the boys and I would invariably start shrieking at each other. That year, Jules was working thirty miles away on some show shot on a horse ranch mostly at night. Wednesday night he was home and he generally spent it in bed with a tray and the remote control. Once in a while, he and the boys went out to this revolting Mexican restaurant they all love and I won’t go near. Otherwise, he was gone except on the weekends when he slept, being understandably exhausted from the night shoots. Three mornings a week before dawn, Jules and I would cross paths in the kitchen: me with my commuter’s mug of café au lait on my way to the cable studio for Healthy Harriet. Jules on his way to the kitchen for his Irish oatmeal before hitting the sack. (The oatmeal everybody loved was made the night before in the crockpot by Healthy Harriet.) Looking back it is remarkable how often Jules landed gigs that either sent him on location or put him in an entire other stratosphere schedule-wise from the rest of us.

Once I started yoga, I was hooked almost right away and began going into down dogs in the kitchen and soon handstands against the door that led to the laundry room. When I took the boys for their college tours, I remember Googling yoga studios in the towns we visited. Like cooking, it kept me sane. And gave me something to look forward to. And it wasn’t solitary like running. I liked the chanting. The bowing and the “Namaste”—I particularly loved the one chant we repeated three times: Loca Samasta Sukihino Bhvantu. May all beings everywhere be happy and free from suffering.

By that point I must have begun to realize subconsciously at least, that much as I loved him, I was much happier and the boys acted better when Jules wasn’t around. What a revelation! For years I had been in the habit of thinking the problem was that Jules was gone most of the time and we all missed him. Granted we did miss him, especially in those first few years in LA when they were young and I didn’t know a soul and I had to start all over again work-wise. Though I do remember sort of putting it together that the horrible pains that tightened my neck muscles and sent me to the chiropractor for adjustments only happened when Jules was at home. When he was around, I not only felt sort of queasy, I could literally feel the chords of my neck tightening like the reins of a workhorse. The Jules effect wasn’t a whole lot more salubrious on the boys. In fact Sam started having the same neck problems I did. Maybe it was his violin, maybe not. I’m not trying to say things were perfect between the boys and me. Especially Dan and me. Certainly we fought when I hung around serving them dinner and when I fussed like they were ten-year-olds. However, when I stopped doing that we were much better. I say all this because the combination – of just leaving them food and not fussing over them realizing I didn’t miss Jules, realizing they didn’t miss Jules, doing yoga and finally when they left home and the coast was clear, meeting Lydia – was like finding the essential fixings for a good stock, and the basis for what I cooked up. The spontaneous orgasm at yoga probably didn’t hurt either. A little giftie from the universe, a sort of hey, look, it can happen again, maybe not in the way you think but it can happen.

Dinnertime yoga in LA – and probably everywhere else too – is primarily practiced by single and/or divorced women. If I were a guy on the make, that’s the first place I’d go. Women who do a lot of yoga have great bodies and I even stopped shouting (except in the shower) when I got hooked. But the men at yoga are usually few and far between and often gay. That or AA. It didn’t take me long to discover not only was I one of the least limber in class, I was also the only woman there who actually lived with her husband and kids. Certainly my role at home was quite different than it had been before – the real change had come when they got their drivers licenses. However, I still considered myself a mom. And I did what moms do everywhere whether their day jobs are over or not. I planned the meals, did the shopping, cooked what they liked, ran the house, showed up at school functions and bought them things, tried to get them to talk to me . . . and now that they were older watched for signs of drugs, though I generally avoided signs of sex. A far cry from the old days when there was all this plus driving, plus organized sports, music lessons and the rest of it. Since I’m trying to tell it like it was, did I mind that I wasn’t so fucking central anymore? Not really. Sometimes I felt wistful for the early years, particularly when I looked at the lines around my face. But like a lot of women, I was dead-tired from too many years of doing too much cooking/managing/scheduling. Yoga gave me a place to go and something to get good at, though I’ll never be really good at it in the way I would have been had I started in my twenties.

Randy, who was teaching the night I met Lydia, was a mixed race hunk, twenty-four years old with blond dreadlocks, golden skin and shoulders that stretched from east to west.

“Supta Badda Konasana. Lie flat on your back. Put the soles of your feet together and let your knees relax and sink toward the floor. Good. Bring your awareness to your groin. And breathe. Breathe!”

I suspect Randy must have had that effect on others because unless you got there early and put your mat down, you couldn’t get a place. And too, after it happened to me, I figured it was probably happening at yoga centers all over the country, and was at least in part responsible for the huge surge in popularity.

It makes perfect sense, when you’re lying there, soles of the feet together, thighs spread, breathing into the sex organs that once in a while someone will get off.

OMMMMMMM!

When the class rang out with the chorus of OM, I’m almost sure I came forth with an AHHHM. Just for the record, the big O during the big OM has never happened since then, though I have gotten close a few times. And I still do yoga almost every day. And I’ll never know whether Lydia knew what was happening on the mat next to her.

“How often do you come?” she asked in her melodious English voice. Not of course what she meant, still strangely apposite for the first thing she said to me.

“Every day if I can. I’m hooked. How about you?”

“I’m a rank beginner.” I’m Lydia, by the way.

“I’m Harriet.”

We didn’t shake hands. We were schlepping our mats and navigating down the stairs and onto the street. When we hit the lit sidewalk she did a little start.

“Healthy Harriet!”

I smiled.

“You taught me to make brown rice with mung beans, carrots, ginger and ghee.”

“I’m so pleased!” I told her, and it was true. It wasn’t that she recognized my dubious status as a food network host. It’s the feeling that right away, this beautiful obviously highly intelligent creature with the gorgeous English accent seemed to approve of me and get me. And the feeling was mutual.

“Good old mung!” I replied. “I’ve got that cooking at home in the rice cooker.”

Customer Reviews

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The New Me 3.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 25 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I loved this book. Totally related to the narrator and her situation. Heartbreaking and funny at the same time. Very easy to read but quite well written. 
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I really enjoyed this book, very entertaining and thought provoking  The author puts fourth...having it all comes with consequences. 
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I can totally relate to Harriet even though I am a single, childless 55. It is all about turning a corner and realizing you are on a street you have never ventured. Time for adventure! ~*~LEB~*~
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I could not identify with the main character at all
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A realistic, contemporary novel. The characters were well drawn, as irritating as they were. The story was crafted as an introspective realization that the narrator should have seen the clues to what was going on. I did not find the book the lighthearted read I had hoped for.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Good and enjoyable read.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The style of writing is different than I normally read but I liked it. I thought the main character was very interesting. I could relate to her discontent, though not to her resulting actions. I liked the conflict inside of her and reading through her reflection. It was very different but very good . I would recommend it.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Loved, loved loved The New Me. Harriet is hilarious and so is her demon husband Jules. I am waiting for the movie--and anything else the author writes.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I'd give this book zero stars if I could. All the main character did was whine, whine, whine. Not of interest to me! Do not recommend.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Quick and easy read, but held me to the end.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Excellent
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The book wasn't as good as I was hoping it would be. There was a lot of jumping around which made it hard to understand if it was past or present. I tried to feel for the main character, Harriet, but in the end I just couldn't connect with her. I didn't like any of the characters...except Valentina and Sam.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
But lots of people to keep track of
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Very shory and quite possibly the most boring book i have ever read. Harriet is stupid and deserves everything that happens to her.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This stupid cow got exactly what she deserved.