Shake It Up, Baby, Now!

I take this break from finalizing a very important paper (ironically, on obesity and society’s treatment of the subject) that I’ve been working on for months to bring you a blog—nay, a rant—that has been sparked by multiple people admonishing the “Body by Vi 90 Day Challenge.”  Folks, I hate to break it to ya, but if I wanted a shake for breakfast and another for lunch, I’d do Slim-Slow.  Now, don’t take this as your big break to be able to exercise your marketing prowess and tell me how different Visalus is from Slim Fast.   It’s a shake, and unless it tastes like a chocolate, whip cream-topped, delicacy from the mecca of dairy blends…ole Steak ‘N Shake itself…I ain’t buyin’ it.  I don’t care how fat this may cause me to remain. 

On that note, most of you who are taking this big CHALLENGE have—by my estimation—about 20 pounds MAX to lose.  (Oh, it’s 30?  Pardon me.  I didn’t realize we working on the bottom number of the BMI index for healthy weight.)  Did you ever consider how offensive it might be to send out a targeted email, text, etc. to your “friends” who may just be DYING for the secret that you have mysteriously uncovered?  It’s the equivalent of saying, “Hey, friend, I’ve noticed that you are fat, so I thought you might like to partake in two shakes a day with me.  Ya know, get yourself under control?  C’mon!!!  It’ll be fun, fatty!” 

What happens when your 20 pounds are gone?  You gonna keep drinking this water-puffed-protein-powder with me while I struggle to starve off the last 50 pounds I need to lose?  Probably not.

Now don’t get me wrong.  Some of you to whom this might be relevant should know how VERY dearly I love you.  I think you are excellent.  I don’t think you offered up your Protein treasure to hurt me; in fact, I think you were truly probably trying to be helpful.  You’ve perhaps read my blog, even, and thought you’d offer me the solution.  So, in some small corner of my very large body, I even hold a dollop of gratitude that you were trying to help.  Just remember:  I love food.  A diet that eliminates that from my life would not only be depressing, but it also would not be the “lifestyle change” I know I should eventually initiate.

Now, I think I’ll go have a shake.  A real one.  From McDonald’s perhaps.  Sorry, Vi.

She's a Brick House?

It has come to my attention that my blog has really attracted some new readers.  To my new “fans,” Welcome.  From my little bitty wee friends who never consume more calories than they can easily run off on the treadmill to my amorphous blob-like buds, Welcome.  I fall in the latter group and thus relate more to them, but certainly, all are welcome to read.

For the skinny folk, I hope you will gain enlightenment as to why we blob-like babes tend to be constantly making excuses OR on a new diet (albeit one that maybe reaches the 20 lb loss point and yo-yos right back in the wrong direction).

For my amorphous blob, enjoy.  We curvier, rounded types should strive to understand one another, right?

The idea for today’s blog comes from my most recent graduate class entitled Directed Independent Study.  (Let’s hope this is a series--unlike poor Foreman-- I’ll stick with, since a grade depends upon it.)  I found a professor benevolent enough to guide me through this task, which is akin to a thesis—for you real smart folk.  I am the sole student.  In this class, I have chosen to investigate a phenomenon I’ve noticed lately:  a surge in obesity narratives in modern texts (like chick-lit, television shows, film, etc.).  Have YOU noticed the same surge I am seeing?  It seems I can barely turn on the tube without a show that wields some poor ole fat girl attempting to transform herself into a shiny, flexing masterpiece.  My favorite among this type is, of course, The Biggest Loser, but honorable mention goes to A&E’s Heavy and The Style Network’s Ruby.  I’ve also begun reading a book entitled Such a Pretty Face by the author Cathy Lamb. 

There will be more to come, but I would like to include some very general observations I’ve made about myself and other corpulent women through analyzing these texts thus far.  I’m not sure where I will go with these in the end, but here is the first observations with which I shall begin:

Rotund Retaliation:

I’m not sure what it is about pudge, but it makes us punitive.  In many of these texts (and in life), fat people are often angry.  Perhaps that’s why we are fat.  I once read (while at the nail salon, ill-equipped to document said source) that fat women often use the fat as a barrier.  We are mad at some certain situation, so we stack up brick after brick of fat to defend ourselves against people hurting us.  It's like the song "She's a Brick House," but way less groovy.  If we get dumped, for example, we like to think it’s because we are fat.  If we LOSE the weight, then we are forced to face the uglier facts—like perhaps we got dumped because we have deeper issues (needy, greedy, or just plain seedy).  In other words, if it’s people who have hurt us, then building up a layer of fat protects against why they may have done that. 

Anyhow, after analyzing some of the texts, I’ve been forced to search down deep for how, when, and why this may have occurred with me—this need to retaliate with my rotundness.  For me, this was living in Elba, Alabama—what a hell-hole.  The girls are mean and their moms are even meaner.  It doesn’t help when your dad is the preacher and you can’t really say too much to defend yourself against their insane antics.   I could honestly write a whole book about one particular round-faced teacher I had there, if I didn’t think I’d get slapped with a lawsuit.  Luckily, there were also quite a few people there who were as loving and sweet as the others were mean, but I still don’t think I ever exited Elba unscathed.

An interesting lesson I’ve gained from watching the shows and reading the books I mentioned earlier is this:  by building these walls, we only punish ourselves.  Fat doesn't protect us; even if it does, it is a lousy protection.

So, a small goal that I feel will be worth working towards is focusing on what I do well, what I can offer others (and there IS so much), and in the process I hope to tear down a few walls (i.e. pounds) that I've put up over the years.  

My challenge to each and every reader (blobs and thin beauties alike) is to stop.  Stop degrading yourself by doing things that are degrading.  Challenge yourself to love yourself; because until we all learn to do that, it is nearly impossible to love others and for them to love us back. 

The Smack Down

I’ll start by saying if my tone is abrupt or offensive, good. It’s supposed to be. I’ve been sick for seventy-five months (ok, more like 2), and I don’t go to bed before midnight. Ever. I get up at 6:00 a.m. every morning, and I read stuff for graduate school every chance I get. Today I read at a traffic light…it was green.

So, naturally, it is safe to say that my patience is a little silver thread—a glimmer so small it nearly doesn’t exist. In the midst of all the chaos, this blog is actually the one release I enjoy.Sometimes I laugh just imagining what I could write…if only time were my pal.

Well, today I decided to call a sub and, in the spirit of George Foreman, give my schedule the smack down. I woke up early this morning sick, so I decided that stress was not doing anything for healing. I entered the sub into the online system and fell back into slumber for about thirty more minutes. I awoke thinking of my blog. I (quite naturally) was excited for breakfast, but not just because I got to eat (though that is always exciting). It is day 2; meal 2 of my Forty with Foreman. I pull out the Foreman, sleepily plug it in, and reach into the fridge for my pre-cooked turkey sausage patties.

The Foreman heats them in about two minutes, and I cackle to think that yesterday I had the audacity to compare my blog to Julie and Julia.

“Hmmm…speaking of Julie and Julia, perhaps I should go rest and watch that for a bit to gain a little extra rest before moving into my homework for class,” I think silently as I spoon out my sugar-free Bread and Butter pickles (Yep, so not Julie or Julia). I curl back into bed and begin watching. I soon realized why I NEVER, EVER watch this movie. In fact, I remembered why I downright hated this movie: the smacking is Out. Of. Control. Nora Ephron, if you ever decide to turn my life into a movie (it would promise to be fantastic material), people can’t make food noises. I mean, C’mon, NORA, did you really think people would find this entertaining?

CLICK HERE FOR LINK TO THE SCENE DEPICTED BELOW

The link doesn't show how revolting the male actor's chewing really is, but I wouldn't advise putting yourself through it anyhow. I was so disgusted after this scene that I decided to go ahead and do my homework, quickly snapping of the DVD player. If only life were always that easy.

I get to class tonight, cranky because of my limited sleep and wimpy health, and I find my seat. I get a 100% on the reading quiz, then listen as my peers and professor engage in a quite meaningful discussion of the previous week’s reading assignments. All goes well, until after the break.

After the break, two classmates—the two who sit flanking my sides—pull out Cheez-Its (a 7 on the annoyance scale) and Almonds (Normally, an 8…but tonight, because of the manner of mastication, an 11). I sit glaring at the almonds, then back at the smacker on my left. I would look to my right at Cheez-Its Queen, but she’s at least trying to be quiet. I decide to zero in on the main perpetrator. With the vigilance I used to train my dog to lie down, I glared at the almonds then back at the girl—while she continued popping these little distractoids, oblivious to my death glare.

I leaned back in my desk, raising my hands to my eyebrows in a grimace that pulled my balled fists down both cheeks to express my tremendous frustration. As I did this, I resolved that I would blog a video showing people how annoying smacking can be. When I thought of how obnoxiously I could send my rant into cyberspace, I snickered sinisterly. My professor noticed.He said, “Bless you” and I silently thanked God that he thought I sneezed, and at the same time felt embarrassed to have shown my frustration in such a loud and obvious manner. I’m surprised he even heard me over the smacking in the room.

Turns out, the video takes way too long to upload, and (brace yourself, this may come as a shock) I don't have time to wait for it. However, if you are guilty of loud or offensive chewing, slurping, smacking, or crunching: Be forewarned that I am ready to put the SMACK DOWN on SMACKING. Don't forget that I have George Foreman, Heavyweight Boxer, as my new inspiration.

Forty with Foreman

If you would have told me a month ago that I’d be writing a blog about a man who was an Olympic gold medalist in boxing, a Baptist minister, and an entrepreneur—I’d have laughed in your adorable face. But somehow lately, probably as a desperate attempt to rejuvenate my blogging efforts, I stumbled upon a new little project/idea…and the result is a blog about my new hero, George Foreman.

Y’all remember when this big ‘ole man first came out with the invention? I do. I remember watching the infomercials with the fat dripping down out of the patented sloping griddle…just imagining how glorious I’d feel dumping that fat down the sink rather than into my mouth and onto my hips. I jumped on the Foreman Grill Bandwagon way back when—favoring this handy device as my primary cooking tool in college. Back then, in college, I burnt the dickens out of most of the chickens I ever laid across the steaming slats of the original Foreman.

But that was college. Now, thirty-year-old-Corrie would OBVIOUSLY do better…so I thought. As I unloaded the groceries from my car, my new man-friend arrived just in time to help. He laughed with his slow, deep-Southern drawl: “Oooooh, my goodness. What. Is. This? You’ve done got you a FOREMAN?” I laughed tentatively before telling him that the dinner I’d lured him over with would be cooked on the new grill. After receiving a smirk of doubt from him, I hurried on to explain my new plan to keep up with the blog.

“Hunnnnnnn,” I conjured my sweetest, flirtiest explanation, “Ya seeee, I’m plannin’ to do a blog series that I’m-a-title Forty with Foreman.” He laughed, probably at my attempt to be cute, and asked what the “Forty” would be: Forty days? Forty meals? He was the second person to echo doubt that I’d make it forty days in a row with the blogging. Earlier in the evening, my best friend Leslie got a big kick outta me saying I’d do forty days of blogging. Normally, this would be my invitation to blog for forty straight days if it hair-lipped Georgia, but I reckon they may be right. SO, tonight will be my first installment of “Forty MEALS with Foreman.” It’s like the low-carb, low-fat, charred, burnt-up version of Julie and Julia. I admired the cooking manual as if it were Mrs. Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking itself.

After deciding that I should pose just like George in my opening photo of this inaugural blog, I burnt—I mean blackened—two blue cheese/peppercorn burgers. Thank goodness I wasn't doing anything too crazy, like poaching eggs or making Beef Bourguignon. Just a couple of little ole burgers for tonight. Very fancy. Here’s the process:

1. Cook.

2. EAT (My obvious favorite).

3. Clean (Enjoying dumping the fat down the drain, rather than down to your derriere).

The dinner was definitely not Julia Childs, but it was decent. And, more importantly, my biggest hope is that it could lead to another kind of forty…as in pounds lost. Or maybe million...as in dollars I'll make when I become a real writer like Julie. But for now, as my dearest ones have suggested, it is gonna lead to meal 1 of 40--with my friend, Foreman.

Be Still and Know...

About a month ago, I was at the gym—on my usual, seemingly unattainable quest for a thinner body. I was on a roll. Eliptical—10mph—30 minutes—move to the treadmill—jog at 6.0 for 10 minutes—move to the quadriceps machine—keep up the pace—15 reps, then a new machine quickly. My eye zoned in on the one machine I love the most: the incline leg press.

Let me explain my affinity for the leg press. First of all, I’m great at it. I feel like a beast… A well-oiled machine… A downright weightlifting Goddess when I am seated in this machine, legs at a 90 degree angle, feet pushing against the flat metal square, buttocks-quads-hams-calves all working to muscle up 280 pounds of iron glory.

So, as I finish my first set at the quadriceps station, I begin eyeballing the leg press. 5-4-3—OH DEAR…I notice that a man swoops in on my favorite station, the station I am headed to next. “No problem…keep up the pace…move quickly to the hamstring station, THEN head to leg press,” my inner thin voice tells me. I settle in quickly to work my hams, and I look to gauge when the leg-press-interloper might be finished.

When I glance over, I notice that he is just sitting there, reclining. He has yet to lift his feet to the smooth metal platform and PUSH. He is just sitting. Juuuuuuuussstt sit-ting. I watch his mountain of a beer belly heave up and down—from what effort I know NOT, since he is NOT working. He is JUST SITTING there. He turns to his right a bit. An effort to get up? Nope. An effort to get more comfortable on his napping machine. He continues to sit there, cozily cuddled into a pseudo-fetal position.

By this point, I’ve decided to go back to work my second set of quadriceps. On my way to the quad machine, I almost wonder if I should go check on him. He looks a little older…am I witnessing a heart attack before my eyes? Then he decides to begin his work. He does a few sit-ups, using the handle atop the leg-press machine to lift himself each time. “Don’t judge, Corrie,” I tell myself. But then I see him lie back and settle into his formerly comfy position.

It is at this point that I decide I will dedicate an entire blog to making fun of this slovenly creature, napping grotesquely on my favorite machine. I grab my iPhone (luckily it’s with me for musical inspiration), and I snap a picture of him—just to prove to all you readers that I’m not exaggerating. He really sat in this position long enough for me to finish four sets on two machines AND take pictures of the fiasco that was going down.

After I had finished my sets and snapped his picture, I thought it prudent to let you all see my increasing frustration. I turn the camera, and take a few shots of my face, now screwed into a grimace (as seen at beginning of this post). On my last shot, I notice a body-builder type from the corner of my eye; apparently, he had been watching me take each picture—of the slob, of me, of the whole ordeal. The stranger smiled at me, shaking his head in sympathy—having noticed and understood where my frustration began.

The crazy part is, I smiled back and instantly felt bad—even a little embarrassed. Perhaps that old man on MY machine needed a rest. Maybe he had pushed his limit. I didn’t see where he was before he perched on my dear machine; perhaps he worked harder today than days before. And who am I to judge? I started thinking about times when it felt so great to stretch and lie still after a workout.

The more I marinated on the situation, I found there could be a great “It builds character” lesson to learn here. In my life of hustle and bustle—of recent heart wrenching moves and changes—I often forget to be still. In the analogy of workouts, I stay on the treadmill (doing what I have to do) and often skip enjoying the stillness after a sweat-fest. I was reminded that day of one of my favorite Bible verses, “Be still and know that I am God.” Occasionally, we are called to be still. I decided at that moment, that some stillness was just what I need in my life.

And that’s exactly what I got, right after I finished 3 sets on my very favorite machine.

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.”