Good Grief: Keep Sparkling, Sweet Dickie

A childhood foe, an unexpected friend, and a lifelong mentor: My time with Richard Simmons.

When I was little, I was often bullied. I was painfully shy, had skipped second grade, was taller than the other boys in my class, and always had an effeminate bent. Kids can be ruthless when they sense another kid is different but can’t quite pinpoint why.

Beyond the usual gay slurs, two nicknames stung the most: “Tinkerbell” and “Richard Simmons.” I didn’t understand why they called me that; I just knew it hurt, and I wanted nothing to do with him. So when I saw him on General Hospital, I fast-forwarded. When he popped up hawking Deal-A-Meal late at night, I quickly changed the channel. And I never missed a chance to make Sweatin’ to the Oldies the butt of a joke.

The truth is, I did see myself in Richard. I understood what the kids were saying, and it mirrored the parts of myself I hated: my high-pitched, underdeveloped voice, my softness that made me feel weak, and my preference for hanging out with girls instead of boys.

But all that changed in February 2005, when my friend Amy took me to his aerobics class at Slimmons in Beverly Hills.

The first time I met Richard, he looked at me and said, "Your hair is too fabulous—you’ll have to leave. No one’s allowed to have more fabulous hair than me." Then, without missing a beat, he stuck the rest of the carrot he was eating into my mouth and walked away. He was every bit the larger-than-life character you saw on TV, talk shows, and Howard Stern.

But I was also lucky enough to experience the quieter moments with him, when the volume turned down and his vulnerability was displayed. For all his court jester antics, he spent just as much time prying into people’s lives, unafraid to shine a light on their deepest shames. We would visit inner-city schools to teach aerobics, and by the time we got back in the car, he’d be silent, completely drained from wanting to help every child he’d met.

While I’ve never quite conquered my own weight struggles, my years with Richard completely transformed my relationship with my body.

When he and his partner Anne cast me in Sweatin’ to the Oldies 5, I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever done. All these years later, I can tell you—it still is. We rehearsed for six weeks and filmed for three days in a sound studio at Sunset Bronson Studios. Ten hours a day, running through the numbers over and over. I had a big moment where I was in front just to Richard’s right, and I kept blowing it—take after take. I couldn’t get my lollipop arms right, and all the while, Richard’s knee was in so much pain. I felt awful.

I miss so much about him. I miss the way he’d walk into a room, scan who was there, and instantly start spinning stories about what everyone had been up to. I miss how ridiculous he’d be when we were on our 80th leg lift, in total agony, yet still somehow smiling and cracking jokes. I miss the community he created, where you could show up to class alone and leave with a roomful of new friends. Some of my closest friendships came from those classes.

I miss how he’d play actual vinyl records while we danced—never using a microphone, just shouting and laughing, lifting the needle off the record to make a point. I miss him.

Richard was a mentor to me. He and Anne took me under their wings and encouraged me to get my aerobics certification. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, which makes it one of my proudest accomplishments. I ended up teaching "Bauberobics" for two and a half years. I never would’ve done that without him, and it remains one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.

A decade ago, he went quiet. There was a lot of speculation as to why. I always believed he was simply tired, and frankly, it was none of our business. He had given so much; he didn’t owe us anything. That’s not to say his departure didn’t hurt. It hurt me and so many others who had been with him for over 30 years. He just vanished. But I always thought I’d get to see him one more time, laugh with him one more time, hold him while he cried one more time—and roll my eyes as he grabbed my rolls of belly fat, screaming, "What is this?"

I hope he’s at peace. He’s earned it. Heaven just got a lot louder, a lot more sparkly, and a lot more fun.