The Golden Girls: The Best of Blanche - Part 1

We're All Golden

This week’s blog comes to you a little late—albeit, still within my goal of one-per-week. The reason I’m tardy (because there’s always an excuse, yes?) is because it was Homecoming Week at the big M. This has been one of the most fun weeks yet, but it has wreaked a bit of havoc on my workout routine. At the end of the day, I still fit in two sweat sessions and feel good about the quality time I’ve shared with the loves of my life (my cheerleaders and students). Plus, I’ve come up with a wealth of stories for this week’s blog, dear readers. For time’s sake, I’ll only share one for now.

The best story/lesson of this week comes from our Spirit Week dress up days. My fellow coaching friends and I decided to dress up for “T.V. Show Day," mimicking the precious and sassy Golden Girls. As we decided this was the perfect show for us—striking Saved by the Bell and The Bachelor in the process—we began talking about who would represent which character. Without thinking or much debate, I asserted that I just had to be Blanche. Of course, I chose her for her tenacious nature and Southern swagger. She's OBVIOUSLY the most like me. What I didn’t foresee was everyone asking, “Wait, wasn’t she the hussy?” HUSSY? Who are they calling a hussy? I remember thinking of her as flirtatious. (Well, maybe my first grade teacher had a point when she told my parents I was boy crazy--the witch). Then, out of sheer curiosity, I went back through an episode on YouTube entitled “Best of Blanche” and quickly realized, indeed, she was the hussy. But she was also a few other things—which I think outweigh her hussy-ness. It’s these things that I like best about her, and it’s these thing with which I closely identify: she is confident, she is pretty, and she says what’s on her mind. As I watched the Best of Blanche, I was thinking about how easy it is for people to note the negative:

Blanche…the hussy? VS. Oh, yeah, Blanche…the really confident, funny, charmingly Southern one.

I EVEN do it to myself. It goes like this:

Corrie…who needs to lose 60 pounds to be smokin’ hot VS. Corrie…who is an amazing teacher, very smart, occasionally pretty funny.

OR…

Corrie…who damns her big butt every time she tries on jeans VS. Corrie…who knows good and well that her God-given ASSets are fine tuned and (thank GODDDD) kinda perky in the right pair of jeans.

Instead of following this pessimistic pattern, I far prefer to be Blanche-esque and pronounce, “I’m Beauuuuuuuuutiful….Oh, I’m GOOOOOOORRRRRGeous….Isn’t it amazin’ how I can feel SOOOO baaaaad and looook sooooo Goooooood.” It’s comments like these that made me want to be Blanche.

Ultimately, what I learned from being Blanche-for-a-day is that everyone is gonna be a hater at some point; it’s human nature. So, with that in mind, we must be vigilant about picking the positive and focusing there. Not only that, but we must surround ourselves with people who ignore our negative and bring out our positive….people who will cheer, not sneer, when we say “I’m Goooooorgeous. Gorgeous. Gorgeous.”

And we should be prepared to do the same for others. Dear Blog Readers, you are my true Golden Girls (and Guys); you’ve already brought so much positive to my life. Maybe the Golden Girl’s said it best: “Thank you for being a friend…You’re heart is true; you’re a pal and a confidant.”

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.