Eulogy for "r"

Loretta Lynn—a country legend—released a song in the past few years with a chorus that whines, “I miss bein’ Mrs. tonight.” Well, tonight, I kinda did. I’ve actually been pretty indifferent about my lack of name change post-divorce…until tonight as I was preparing for the Parent Open House. As I began preparing my usual routine for Open House, I pulled out a box of refrigerator magnets that I like to hand out as a catchy gimmick to entice parents to use my teacher website and other contact information. I glanced at the magnets, and noticed one glaring problem: the “r.” In a whisper, I mouthed the words, “M- r - s. Corrie Zimmerman.” I folded the box back up and tossed it in the trash—figuring there was no sense in handing them out and misleading people into thinking I was still happily hitched.

I moved on to a new plan—I would just use technology and show parents my website. I sat at my computer and typed in the ‘ole website address—getting it all cued up for my presentation. During the middle of my first-period presentation, I noticed another pesky little “r”—right there in the “About Me” section. Shenanigans! Another one. I made a mental note to change it after Open House. On my drive home, I started thinking about how much I let the “r” matter. I—for some unknown reason—started thinking of how my next blog must be a formal goodbye to the letter “r.” In an effort to say goodbye to the “r” in “Mrs.”, I will Reappropriate some uses for “r”:

R is for Rebound and Repugnance:

After my divorce, I have begun to face the realization that I am now back “in the game”—and my fat @$ has gained 40 pounds while “sitting the bench.” In an effort to slim down to my pre-marital (or, better yet, pre-college) weight, I’ve begun to hit the gym. During a sweat session last week (the one I blogged about, as a matter of fact) I became eerily distracted by a new TLC show I saw on one of the many televisions mounted to distract runners and elliptical-machiners.

Here’s where repugnance comes in: in the scene TLC is using as one of their “hooks”, there is a 300-pound woman with a stripper pole behind her (Disclaimer: Follow link with caution). Watching with repugnant fascination, I see her squat into a sumo-stance and smack her inner thighs—the thighs subsequently Rippling from the obscene dance move. Literally, I almost fell from the treadmill. I couldn’t unhook my headphones from my ipod quickly enough—switching them to the plug on the treadmill that allows gym-goers to hear the televisions. I quickly learn this show is called “Big Sexy”—and its premise is to demonstrate the plight of a group of plus-sized models trying to “make it big” in the “big city.” And there’s a lot of big. What I found interesting—among many things—is that the women have a name for men who prefer a good BBW: Chubby Chasers.

Where do I sign up? No, just kidding. It was Repulsive. As I began contemplating my Rebound status, I was just downright alarmed. I’ve always had interest from boys—and, until Recently, I have never wondered why: “I is smart. I is important. I is (sometimes) kind.” Seriously, I don’t need to quote “The Help” to know that I am a catch. I is also funny, spontaneous, and perrrty. So it has never occurred to me that men who are interested in me might be of a breed called “Chubby Chasers.”

“Dear Lord Jesus,” I prayed on the treadmill, “Please do not give me anything else to fixate upon. Please keep me away from said Chubby Chasers. Please make me not Chubby so I will not be Chased by said Chubby Chasers. Please, God, if you are listening. I will run at 6.0 and increase my incline to 10.0 and run for 45 minutes instead of 30 and lift 180 instead of just 90 on the leg press. Just please.”

I think my answer to this prayer comes in the form of another R. Respect. Whether Chubby Chaser or not, I will expect respect from any man I am with. More importantly, however, I will respect myself. In the past few weeks, I have found that I am far more obsessive about my weight than any of the guys with whom I’ve hung out. Ultimately, my new prayer will be that I turn into my own breed of Chubby Chaser—but I will chase the chubby girl from disrespecting the thin girl within. In doing this, I hope to find great Relief and even Reconnect with my former self-confidence.

And as for “r”—I clearly have many uses for it…just not “Mrs.” So, in that particlar use of the letter, R.I.P for now, little "r."

R.I.P for now.

To Hell with Prozac - The Debbie Downer Effect

Today was a rough day. I’ve had quite a string of rough days. In the past month or so, I’ve gotten divorced (WOOOOMMMP WOOOOMMMMP); I’ve dealt with a ferocious and nasty pit bull attacking my precious, overweight Shi Tzu (WOOOOMMMMPP WOOOOOMMMMMP); I’ve gained 10 pounds. (WOOOOMMMP WOOOMMMMMP). After this crippling series of events, my mom paid me a visit and made an observation that my roommate, friends, and I have laughed at since then. Picture this: my mom, my roommate, and I are sitting around on the couch. I lift a tired hand to my greasy hair that hasn’t been washed in 3 days, since the attack. I say, “I can’t take much more of this crappiness. UGH, I need a shower. My hair would stay in this ponytail without the holder.” And my adorable mother, with her Southern drawl, makes her official diagnosis: “WELL, CORRRRRRIE, I think you may be depressed.”

She was right. However, I think it’s situational. It’s all in what we make of the hard times. In an effort to sound less like the adorable brunette Saturday Night Live character, Debbie Downer, I proclaimed last night via Facebook that I would begin blogging and get back on track with my weight loss. And today was the deadline. What I forgot was that Debbie Downer is funny for a reason. The reason is that negative circumstances exist, and we can be the person who dwells on these or the person who makes a SNL character out of the people who dwell. Today, I embodied both.

I overslept this morning, leaving myself about 15 minutes to slap on makeup and (shamefully) put my hair in an un-brushed ponytail (maybe there is more to Mom’s diagnosis). I grabbed coffee and ran out the door, forgetting my high-protein Greek yogurt breakfast. Around 8:00, I was feeling the pains of starvation. “No worries,” I appeased myself quietly, “I can just finish this lesson and get the kids started, then I’ll go have the granola bar in my office desk.” Fast forward one hour: I go into my office to grab aforementioned granola treat, and to my dismay, I remembered I had given it to a girl with low blood sugar last week. Instead, I found popcorn and felt relieved that I could at least have a 100-calorie, high fiber meal. I threw it in the microwave for the indicated minute-and-a-half, and came back to find this flaccid, smoking bag staring back at me:

I—WAS—LIVID. Never had I wanted popcorn so badly. Grumbling incoherently, I made my way to the trashcan. One brave student had the nerve to speak up about my inability to pop a simple bag of popcorn. With my head spinning ala Exorcist, I quickly let him know the bag was defective. He made no other comments the rest of class.

I spent the next hour thinking about the can of tuna I would eat at lunch. Upon the arrival of this coveted time, I grabbed my can opener and can of protein and ran to the water fountain to drain the can of excess liquid. I stood there, draining away, my hands shaking like an addict in withdrawals, when suddenly the trusty old can opener slipped, dropping the majority of the can in the water fountain. My hunger made me consider actually trying to salvage it and eat it anyway. This is my inner dialogue:

Hunger: QUICK!! Five Second Rule!!!! It’s only water anyhow. Mostly.

Corrie: GAG. You just WATCHED a student drink out of this, spitting and sloshing water all around.

Hunger: The hot sauce you will put on it might kill the germs.

Corrie: Nope. Can’t do it. And now I feel terrible for creating the fish-flavored water fountain! Just go back in your classroom before you make any more people miss a meal from this smell.

In the end, a coworker noticed my struggle, and (being the Mom-figure that she is) had extra food in her refrigerator. She made me a nice, healthy lunch—which I promptly inhaled.

After school, I unloaded my woes on my roommate—who, as always, listened empathetically and patiently. In the end, I decided that I needed to just get to the gym—even though I felt cranky and weak from my lack of nourishment.

I hammered out an hour-and-fifteen-minute-long gym session (which will be blogged about tomorrow), and I came home happier than ever. Ultimately, my gym session was better than Prozac because it empowered me to ignore the series of crumby events in my day and left me with one big positive: I stuck to my goal for today. I made the choice to turn my day around and go workout rather than lay in bed and whine about my unfortunate metabolism and luck. Hence, my realization for today: Prozac can’t change circumstances. Only WE can do that. Perhaps tomorrow I will wash my hair.

Thin is In

For the first time in my life, I have something that is thin. It is slim, sexy, and has the perfect form. I am not referring to an actual body part…just a technological appendage (one that has been magnetically drawn to my hands since I’ve received it Christmas morning). It is my Mac Book Air. After receiving this perfectly skinny little device, I admired the size. However, this admiration soon turned to anxiety.

Is the 11’’ too small? As I wondered silently, then finally spoke up, my husband assured me that it is the most coveted model—he cajoled as if he were on an Apple commercial, “with a full sized keyboard and ultra slim frame, this baby can go anywhere.” Obstinate, I insisted upon trecking to the Apple store to consult the experts. Both the manager and his nerdy side-kick weighed in on the dilemma, pleasing my husband when their answers unequivocally matched his. The 11’’ is an ultra skinny, portably petite—yet powerful—machine; who would ever trade it up for the 13’’?

As I left fully confident that the 11’’ MBA was my new best friend, I began to wonder why I ever questioned my initial desire for this lean, mean typing machine. I’m no shrink, but I have to wonder if it has anything to do with a reluctance to be thin. Am I projecting my fear of thinness onto this poor, innocent, lovely silver tech tool? Now, before you—dear reader—judge my novice psychotherapy skills—you should know that I began thinking this because of an article in Oprah magazine. The article discussed how many people eat to fill other voids—a fact I’ve known for years already from my ongoing relationship with Weight Watchers. So, understanding that I am an emotional eater is a given—but what intrigued me in the Oprah article is the realization that people who do this are often afraid to be thin.

Since reading this article in the pedicure chair over a week ago, the thought of some unknown fear of thindom has loomed in my brain. Am I scared to be slim? Interestingly, this thinking took on new meaning when I began questioning—perhaps metaphorically—my decision on the 11’’ Mac Book Air. As excited as I was about my new machine—I asked myself if it was too thin. I sought approval from all outside sources on the acceptability of this fine piece of machinery before I decided I loved it. And I do love it. Just like I love fitting into a new, smaller pair of jeans. The key difference I hope to work on in the future is this: Unlike my need for reassurance on the teeny weeny laptop, I need nobody’s approval to love myself enough to make changes to my body—the size of which nobody but me is allowed to determine.

"Depend" on Water

Given the fact that I haven’t blogged in a while, I thought it was high time to renew my blogging efforts. My blog today will explore an incident that happened before school was out, back in early June—an incident which I have been too mortified to speak of until this moment. Against my mother’s wishes, and with my friend Katie’s encouragement, I have decided to offer up a bit of my own humiliation for your entertainment; WARNING-this is not for the easily offended, so stop reading now if that’s you.

If you’re still with me, let’s go back in time about a month. My friends and I met a new friend in the neighborhood, Jeremy, and he was playing at the pool with the gang. This particular day was bright and sunny—perfect for sunbathing and attempting to break out of my translucently pale skin. As we all sat merrily around laughing, gabbing, and floating –the topic of working out came up.

“I really should try to go to the gym,” I muse half-heartedly. “I haven’t seen my trainer in weeks.”

Intrigued by this conversation, Jeremy pipes in—chugging the gallon of water bobbing around in his right hand—and asks what sorts of workouts the trainer does. Katie—a fellow member at the YMCA where I work out—offers her take, “He kills people. They look like they are dying. He’s good…” I interrupt her to confirm his greatness, adding that he—like Jeremy—drinks a gallon of water a day. Suddenly, I have a break-through.

Fit people—really, really fit people—drink water. By the gallon. I interrupt my groundbreaking discovery to declare to my friends that I think I should give it a shot. “I am going to stop drinking so much Diet Coke and give Water Gallons a try.” Not stunned by this obviously momentous proclamation, my very closest friends simply continue floating, for they know my addiction to Diet Coke, and I’m sure they see very little prospect in my newfound desire for water. They don’t believe me, but my new friend—Jeremy—who knows little of my lacking willpower—buys in and begins an oratory condoning the powers of distilled water. Eventually ending his oratorical excellence with “Google it. It’s true,” he has nearly REALLY convinced me to try this.

Dripping a ten-foot trail of water behind my voluptuousness, I waddle over to my lounge chair and grab my iPhone. I google it, where I find that much of the research shows some benefit in drinking distilled water for a limited period of time as a sort of detox. “Either way, it has to be better than Diet Coke,” I tell myself. That settles it. I’m giving this a shot.

That night, I go load up on Distilled Water at the grocery store. I only get enough for the first three days, just to see how I do. I go to bed that night, and eagerly wake the next morning, ready to cart my gallon to school. As I walk into school that day, I have flashbacks to Home Ec. Class, where we had to carry around a bag of flour to show us how hard it would be having a kid. I carry my new baby on my right hip, balancing it with my teaching bag full of graded papers. I arrive in my classroom, out of breath—but ready to begin chugging. I place the graded papers in the appropriate bin, and I open the gallon. As I turn it up and begin gulping, I see a few students arriving. They are looking at me with horror in their faces. Suddenly, I feel a little self-conscious about not bringing a cup or something more lady-like to drink from—I mean, I am drinking right from the gallon. Not exactly refined. But my role models are both men—big, chunky, body builder men...and they drank from the gallon.

I ignore the embarrassment, embrace my inner imbecile, and continue chugging right in front of the growing crowd of students changing classes. One student approaches me with a genuine look of concern and whispers, “Mrs. Z, are you being drug tested or something?” I choke down that gulp of water to avoid spitting it as I laugh. I quickly answer NO and proceed to explain that I’m just trying to slim down a bit. I answer similar questions for the rest of the day, but my gallon was my best friend in the face of these questions. I tipped it back time and time again, until I only had about a third of it left by the time I left school at 3:00.

Proud of my progress, I down the remaining third of a gallon that night at dinner, adding one more glass of water just before bedtime. I lie in bed and relish in my success, thinking this must be how it is done—one healthy change at a time…

And change I did. That night, along with my change in drinking habits, I also changed my pajamas, my sheets, even my mattress pad! Around what must have been 3am, I became aware of a dream. In the dream, I had to pee. I finally made it to the restroom, and relieved, I tried to go. But I couldn’t, or at least I was having trouble. “Push harder,” I remember my subconscious dream-self saying. I did. I pushed and pushed and pushed until I awoke in a puddle the size of Lake Eerie.

“Oh, shit, I’ve pissed the bed,” I realize as I begin fully awakening. Here’s a first. Truly mortified, I looked over at my husband, blissfully sleeping with his sleep apnea mask on. “UGH, I don’t wanna wake him,” I thought, panicking. I run to the bathroom and grab some towels, hoping that perhaps I can just pad the pee until I could change it in the morning without him knowing. No such luck. Quickly, my towels absorbed enough liquid that they were a light ecru instead of bright white. “DAMMIT,” I curse to the cup on my bedstand—which sits with melted ice, laughing at my incontinence. I go ahead and wake my hubby, change the sheets, and drift back to a dry and dreary sleep.

SO, I changed a lot in a day. The next day, I changed my schedule. Like a wee two year old, I was allowed no water after 7pm. Sure would have been helpful if the Water Gallon Club would have let me in on that secret…which is why I find it vital to let all of you in on the same little tidbit: if you drink water—particularly by the gallon—after around 7pm, you will pee your bed—but, hey, at least you’ll be skinny. DEPEND on that (pun intended).

If I'm a Boob, My Friends are the Sports Bra

At some point, we’ve all been supported. Perhaps you have a loving network of friends and family that you unconsciously know is your support group. That has always been true for me. Or, if you haven’t felt support in that way, certainly you’ve experienced support in the form of control-top pantyhose, sports bras, or—for males—jock straps (those are supportive, right?) At any rate, I have been thinking a lot lately about the importance of support.

It all started about two weeks ago when I was asked to go to a workshop, and a dear colleague promised to buy my lunch at European Street…IF I promised to blog about it. For one, this was quite encouraging (I mean, supportive) because it let me know that people other than my best friends (always supportive) are actually reading my blog. I quickly agreed, and each time I saw my colleague after this arrangement, he quipped that he would try to tempt me in every way imaginable: “Perhaps we should attend the buffet at Golden Corral?” or “MMMMM…those cookies look delicious.” Basically, he would try to bring me some good writing material. When the day finally came, though, he wasn’t the demon he promised to be. He was supportive.

Around 8:30 a.m., I noticed that there were bowls of candy on the tables. Everyone around my table had eaten the “good stuff,” so all that was left were Jolly Ranchers and peppermints. No problem. I was offered candy at least three times, and I proudly declined. When my laptop was running out of power, I had to climb under the adjacent empty table and plug it into that outlet since all the outlets at our table were being used. As I emerged from underneath the table and began to tip-toe back to my seat, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a beam of pink light glittering up from the paper bowl atop this vacant table. I could tell by the crinkled aluminum wrapping that it was a perfect little round, miniature Reese’s peanut butter cup. 44 Calories each. I rejected its glimmering flirtations and sat my fat ass back down at our table…

…for FIVE whole minutes. I sat there, feeling the aluminum glare from the chocolate and peanut butter candy behind me. I couldn’t take it anymore. Partly out of boredom and partly out of weakness, I found my chubby little hand leading my chubby little arm over to the table behind me. I snatched the aluminum-wrapped delicacy out of the bowl and hurried to my seat. I sat the Reese’s on the corner of my laptop (to think about if I really wanted it or not). At this point, Scott—my colleague—looks over to notice my new visitor, perched patiently atop my keyboard.

“WHAT IS THAT!!!!!!?????” he nearly announces to the whole room. Startled, I try to whisper that it’s only one little piece, mumbling something akin to “everything in moderation.” I can tell by his eyes that he’s begging me not to do it. Don’t eat it. I wait until he’s looking back at the PowerPoint, and POP…right in the ‘ole mouth. It was good, too. When he looked back over, he saw the remnants of the candy—torn aluminum and paper wrapper, all balled up into a tiny ball. He is far too angelic and polite to comment. At lunch, instead of being the Fiendish Temptor he had initially joked he would be, he commented that the vegetarian fare looked delicious and the grilled chicken salads too. I ordered the salad plate—with chicken, hummus, and tabbouleh. Though he bought two cookies at the end of the meal, he kept them concealed in their gilded package, adding that he always purchases cookies and saves them for later. At the time, I still wasn’t sure how I was going to follow through on my promise to blog about our adventure. I had, after all, eaten fairly well. And he, being supportive, hadn’t tempted all that much.

Later that evening, I came home and decided to go to the gym. I realized that my favorite sports bra was losing a bit of elasticity. I went ahead and pulled it on, topping it with another workout top that features a shelf-bra. As I was bouncing away on the elliptical machine, working on an interval of high speed and high resistance, I decided that I may need a bit more, um, support. After my workout, I headed to Target for that purpose. I was pleased with their selection of colorful Champion sports bras. At only $16 each, I purchased two. I returned home, grateful for my new support.

And that’s when the idea hit me: in any weight loss journey, a person needs varying degrees of support. Sometimes we need emotional support from friends and family. Sometimes we need the support of an amazing trainer to press us beyond the imaginary boundaries we’ve created for ourselves. Sometimes we need support from fitness magazines and shows that give us all sorts of ideas for fashion, time-management, and nutrition. And sometimes, we just need a good sports bra.

This evening, I packed my aqua Under-Armor bag for the gym tomorrow morning—the idea of support still lingering in my head. I looked at what I packed: A new, sturdy sports bra; Hair powder for soaking up sweat from my drenched hairline; Bumble and Bumble Prep spray for wetting my hair enough to blow dry out the kinks from my ponytail holder; and more Bumble and Bumble Does-it-all spray for subtle body and hold. This is my small arsenal of cosmetic support. But these things all bear a striking resemblance to the real support in my life. The hair powder and hair potions are like my trainer. They make me look better. Sure, I could blow-dry my hair without them, but they add a level of polish and ease that I can’t accomplish alone. My favorite metaphor, however, is the sports bra. All my friends, colleagues, and readers are the sports bra. I’m the boob…

Without my little support group to keep me reigned in and uplifted, God only knows where all I would be flailing right now…but something tells me it would be right to a Golden Corral somewhere.

Here's to Last Chances

Have you ever been told, "Ok, now. This is your LAST chance!"? If you have, then you know the rush of emotions involved with these words.

On my go-to show, The Biggest Loser, there is a little thing called the "Last Chance Workout," wherein Bob and Jillian--the trainers--abuse the poor, defenseless contestants until the fatties look like they cannot possibly take another ounce of torture. These trainers are complete sadists. The evil grins that adorn their faces loom over the pitiful, nearly thin (yet still fat) bodies of the contestants. Every week, I think I would really like to be one of the fatties on that show, except on the day when they are spit-screaming in my face LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE WOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRKOUT!!!!!! I just couldn't fathom what that would be like, but always had a masochistic curiosity.

Guess what!? My trainer, who until I receive his legal approval to use his name will be referred to as Water-Gallon-Man (see my second blog ever for details)...anyhow, he's getting married this weekend. Young love. So sweet. So fragile. So full of wonder. So exciting. I'm so happy for his fiance and him. And I like to think that's why he smiled my whole workout. He will be gone for the next two weeks celebrating his new nuptials, so he--like the first time I encountered him--wanted to be sure to "show me love". Love was just in the air, and people, love was in the form of the most tortuous "Last Chance" I've ever had...

...And I've had a LOT of last chances. Like the time I spray painted our rival school-Lincoln High School-with curse words and paw prints my senior year; I was busted by the police, so I naturally cried "Please don't arrest me; my dad is the preacher at First Baptist Church and I'll be KILLLLLED!!!!" The officer gave me one last chance. I scrubbed paint with paint thinner until my acrylic nails were dripping from my fingers. That was a good last chance. I'll remember that last chance.

Today, I had a "last chance" to get in a heart-pumping, pool-of-sweat-inducing, body numbing workout before my trainer vacations for two weeks. I did five sets of weighted jump squats and lunge series, followed by three dead lift and inverse butt/back/hamstring/everywhere lift sets (these last sets call for their own individual blog, which I don't have time for now). The cherry on top, though, would have to be the three sets of weighted calve raises. Have you ever woken up at night with a pesky cramp in your calve? That's what it felt like, only I couldn't get it to go away. Stretching hurt, sitting hurt, walking hurt...I could find no relief. Desperately looking up at my trainer, I moan "Is this EVER going to go away???" He smiled his sadist grin, pleased at the amount of sweat and sheer pain he'd inflicted.

My muscles have recouped (for now), and I'm sure that tomorrow morning when I wake up and put my dainty little size 10 foot on the floor, my entire lower body will most definitely feel the warmth and pain of Water-Gallon's love...a love that only comes from One Last Chance.

Be sure your sins will find you out...

Tonight, my best friend nudged me to go ahead and write a blog by posting the simple prompt, "Blog?" on my Facebook page. I had been contemplating it, but it's one of those nights where what I have to say is downright shameful--thus downright difficult to post.

All week, I've been writing an incredibly difficult--though rewarding--research paper on the writer Aphra Behn's play, The Rover. For the past five days, I've spent the greater part of my free time at the computer. We're talking HOURS here. Last night, I became so enthralled in my research that I kept reading and digging and reading and digging for information to prove my thesis--when suddenly I realized it was 4:00 (A.M.). This past week, I've cancelled two appointments with my trainer and did not attend any of his boot camp classes (which I usually attend at 5:15 a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays). Ignoring that my brain may need the valuable oxygen that comes from a good cardiovascular cram session, I plugged through book after article after book of interesting facts pertaining to my research. The good news here? I have a reasonably decent thesis for my paper. The bad news? This has wreaked havoc on my normal routine.

In an effort to reunite myself with the world, I went to a local restaurant with my husband for dinner. Following my brother's soon-to-be-doctorly advice, I ordered: the Greek salad with grilled chicken (no red meat); More carbs than brother would like (given the bread and olive oil dip), and an unsweetened ice tea (followed with the diet coke that I couldn't resist). Though I did fairly well on my choices, one thing stood in my way from feeling great about being healthy: Le Desert case.

It is strategically placed just to the right of the counter where you order. Like one of the brothels in the red district of Amsterdam, it houses all sorts of illicit, sinful, flirtatious desserts that call out to me--begging me to indulge myself. Okay, so maybe prostitution is the wrong comparison, but the point here is that these desserts look SO delicious that I felt guilty the moment my eyes grazed their smooth, velvety chocolate frosted curves. I feel dirty just writing about them.

At any rate, I walked away from the case of sin, mostly with the assistance of my husband--who doesn't understand because he doesn't particularly like dessert. If it were a case of chicken wings, he'd be feeling my pain. I make it the whole 45 minutes, enduring my salad and then rushing to the door to avoid eye contact with the dessert case.

We get home, and one would think I was in the safe zone. Except...I just couldn't get that dessert case off my mind. I had to have something sweet. A Fiber One bar or 100-calorie pack of Craisins wasn't going to do the trick. I had to find a way to get out and get something chocolate. Something really, truly sinful. I grab my keys, tell my husband that I'm going to Panera to read, and think about whether to get a cookie or cake from Panera. I pull up to Panera, go in, and realize they've taken most of the desserts out of the case. It was like the police had raided this brothel. There was nothing really left but a few sad bagels, some very dried-up-looking loaves of bread, and trays with doilies showing where the delicious desserts previously reclined.

I turn and head for the door, thinking about where I can now get my chocolate fix. My best guess is Starbucks up the street. I go in, and they have nothing truly chocolate, so I turn and leave again. I head to Publix. I park shockingly close to the front of the store and sulk into the bakery area. I always feel so guilty perusing this area--like a drug junkie seeking a high. I peek at the drug--I mean, dessert--case. I see cheesecake, packs of brownies, cupcakes, and finally...Chocolate Overload Cake. Just to be sure, I look behind me at the other case where there are petit fours, cheesecake, and mini-birthday cakes. I walk back and forth between the two cases twice before the two ladies in the bakery try to help me: "Were you looking for something particular?" they smile. I feel incriminated, and mumble, "What? Oh, me? Naw, I'm good." I go back for the Chocolate Overload cake. Quickly as possible, I snatch it from the case and in one fluid move swagger over to the register, hoping that no one is seeing me make this exchange. I get to the Express Line, and the clerk perkily observes, "OH, MMMM...Chocolate Overload." My head jerks up from looking down at my wallet, and I want to tell her "SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...not so loud, someone might hear you." Instead, I smile and pay cash. Then I do the first running I've done all week, right out the door.

I make it home safe and sound, ready to dive into my ecstasy of CHOCOLATE OVERLOAD, when I realize my husband hasn't left for the office yet like he said he was going to. I'm so busted. I make the walk of shame in to my house, casually place my purse and my purchase on the counter--and respond to his surprised remark that I'm home faster than he expected. Without making eye contact, I go get a fork. I can tell he's looking at the Publix bag. When he sees me unveil the chocolate sin, he immediately chastises me for my poor choice. I yell. He yells. I yell again. I retreat to the office to write this blog, which I already know is going to be about my transgressions. He comes to kiss me before he leaves for his late-night session with Lady Law, and I settle in with French music playing in the background.

My menag a trois with Chocolate cake and Diet Coke ensues. It's sin. Truly.