Biggest Loser, Saving the Titanic & Me

My school started a Biggest Loser program so it shouldn’t be a big surprise that I can so relate to that on so many, many levels. And, it shouldn’t come as a shock either to anyone that I immediately made a beeline to the nurse’s office, promptly signed up and immediately weighed in after, of course, receiving the necessary assurances that no one could hack into the nurse’s computer to retrieve my weight or BMI.

Sadly, I have enough body fat that I’m pretty sure if I had been a passenger on the Titanic I could have singlehandedly kept it afloat–at least long enough for a rescue. And that’s not because I’m fat either. OK, well maybe, but I’ve always been a floater even when I was skinny. OK, so maybe I’ve never been skinny… How about thin? OK, so maybe not thin. How about not-fat? Let’s go with that.

At any rate, this Biggest Loser nomenclature got me thinking. And, we all know what that means. Aiyeyeyeye. I was going to do a list of “You know you’re the Biggest Loser when…” but that just made my head hurt and damaged my self of steam. So instead, I thought I should hop into the confessional and tell you why I earned–hands down, no competition–the Biggest Loser title this week. (And, oh my goodness, note that it was only Tuesday.) I wish I could say earning the title had something to do with shedding pounds, but alas, that would be a lie (and a big, fat one at that).

Let’s just say that once again some moron–that would be me–somehow managed to schedule both newspaper and yearbook deadlines at the same time. Needless to say, I’ve been a little frenzied. OK, make that frenzied times two squared with a few crazies thrown in. Before I left school Monday. I checked the yearbook tray and noted–rather disgustedly–that there were no, nadda, zippo, zilch yearbook pages turned in. I walked out the door about 5:30 p.m. with my angry face on.

Tuesday morning wasn’t much better. A yearbook disaster here, there, everywhere. I couldn’t even muster up the energy to do the hokey-pokey. Instead, I snapped at no fewer than four yearbook staffers even before the tardy bell rang–all while pounding out a you-better-fix-this-problem-or-your-liver-is-coming-out-your-nose-nasty-email to the photo company rep. Once the bell rang, I turned my wrath on my yearbook staffers all sitting dutifully in their uncomfortable desks, and all mustering their best serious faces.

“I can’t believe none of you turned in any of your pages for deadline,” I scolded. “And, I was here until 5:30.”

But before I could really get going, a somewhat timid hand went up over on the right side of the room.

“What is it,” I bellowed.

“Uh, Richie, the deadline isn’t until today,” the staffer said amidst a sea of nods.

“What?” I barked, or maybe I hissed. I kind of like it when I get to hiss.

“Yeah, it’s today,” my always-unruffled editor announced.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s today,” they said in unison. “Today’s Tuesday.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Well, never mind then,” I added, feeling a bit like Gilda Radner’s character Miss Litella in those old Saturday Night Live skits.

Loser.

Big Loser.

Big Fat Loser.

Well, maybe not entirely a big fat loser.

At least I could have saved the Titanic. Now that’s got to count for something.