I read in a blog that Jillian Michaels is leaving The Biggest Loser. For those unfamiliar, she’s the hot lady who screams at contestants until she spits and they puke. When they’re finished hurling, she makes them run on the treadmill again and yells an inch from their faces until they cry. In short, she is delightful. I can’t decide if I want to be her or marry her. Any fan of the show will tell you that they can’t imagine the Biggest Loser ranch without her tyrannical antics.
Then there’s Oprah, whose excruciating year-long goodbye is like Chinese water torture. Each episode is counted down and punctuated with leaky-eyed celebs gagging out their O-influenced memories and tributes. Every few days another musically scored montage is released, each more tear-jerking than the last. While watching Suze Orman berate the Duchess of York* the other day, I thought, “I’m supposed to live without this?”
If those two exits aren’t enough, we now have to coexist with a Michael Scott-less The Office, which is going down like a sinking booze cruise. I didn’t bother watching this week’s episode, because Tina Majorino was on Bones last night. (That’s what she said).
Tina happens to be my favorite Big Love cast member, which brings me to the crushing loss of that show at the end of March. Only in recent days have I been able to refrain from weeping in public when something reminds me of the finale (driving by Lowes makes me think of drill bits and garbage disposals, which make me think of Nicki, who reminds me of…well, you get it). Henricksons, we hardly knew ye.
Basically, the only show of interest left for me is one that I haven’t seen much this season. Glee.
I really adore the music (sometimes Broadway on primetime network television—that takes my breath away), and as a former band geek I’m thrilled that one of the most popular shows on television is about band’s kissing cousin, show choir. Hoorah for the anti-bullying plot, as well as the itgetsbetter.org ads (again, primetime network—wow). However, like my high school band of yore, time is marching on, and I think my age is what makes me feel like shouting after an hour of their high-intensity hormonal hijinx, “HEY, YOU KIDS! GET OFF MY LAWN!”
So, in the coming weeks, if I’m seen and heard arbitrarily screaming at the obese, making an unsolicited public announcement about what book should be read this month, clamping my foot in a George Foreman Grill, or if you see me with a group of women, varied in age, and all of us seem to be adding items to the same grocery cart…everything is fine.
I’m honoring Jillian, Oprah, Michael and the Henricksons in my heart, and trying to keep them all the year.
*Things are much worse for Sarah than I ever imagined. Seriously, if you pull a name off of one of those angel trees this Christmas, you may end up buying an ipod for her Beatrice.