Jen Worick

I’m late to the Richard Simmons celebration of life because, well, this week, amirite? (Kamala, hell yes!) But I wanted to add my own condolences and experience to the heaping pile Richard Simmons anecdotes. 

He was a true delight. Much like Mister Rogers, who I also had the good fortune to meet and work with, Richard Simmons was 100% the person you saw. In his case, he was a joy bomb. He was infectious, which maybe makes him a joy virus? 

Some of you may have listened to the podcast about his reclusiveness in recent years, but I met him in the early 2000s, when I was a new freelance writer eager for cool book gigs. I had co-authored a book with a stuntwoman (Hey Danielle!) as well as a couple of Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbooks so a gift book with Richard Simmons was totes up my alley. 

I had a vision for the book and it included photos of Richard popping up all over the pages Kilroy-style as he dispensed his own advice for a joyful life. Short shorts may or may not have been recommended. 

We talked on the phone and the book and its proposal slowly took shape. I flew out to California and cabbed to his home in the Hollywood Hills, somewhere above the Chateau Marmont. I was feeling myself!

Richard himself opened the door, dressed in a white nylon tracksuit, with perhaps a graphic Patrick Nagel-like tee. But I only got a glimpse of him at first because two Dalmatians bum rushed me, meaning they sniffed my crotch. 

But he quickly ushered me into a room and went to fetch me some pink lemonade. While waiting, I noticed the glass shelving full of dolls, dolls, dolls. (He was a collector.) And then, there was the portrait over the mantel that looked like Whistler’s Aunt. 

When Richard returned, he read my aura. Like I said, joy bomb. We never sold the project—I think we were ahead of our time, to be honest—but the real prize, the gift, was in getting a little shine IRL. 

So RIP, dear man. You delighted us all.