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.”

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.