Please remember that from my twisted point of view that if you visit a bookstore and ask for directions to the self-help section you have defeated the purpose. Americans don't really want to help themselves; we just want to wait until we have become so jaded, disillusioned, and generally screwed up that someone in our inner circle has to provide us with an intervention. I try my best to steer away from that section of the bookstore, it gives me the heebie-jeebies. People are far too touchy feely in that department. Most of them are convinced you can actually get milk from an almond and they are usually obsessed with making things out of hemp. They also tend to talk in that muted tone like they are a commentator for the PGA, or they are calling in sick to work. Consider this, inspirational books are designed to accomplish one thing, to help you become something you aren't. It's not a very realistic, is it? Said books are usually written by people who comically call themselves life coaches. I'm currently 55 years old, if I haven't needed a life coach by now, I'm not going to ever need one. The truth is we don't need books to steer us in a direction we have already gone. You are not going to shell out $35 on a hardback that was written to help you make boatloads of money if you are already a millionaire. Catch my drift?
There are scads of books that contain fad diets that few overweight people will never read. In American there are two types of bestselling books and they usually fall in the following order, #1) cookbooks, and #2) diet books. One tells you how to pack it on and the other shows you how to work it off. This is American absurdity at its level best. But this is the American way, isn't it? Just think about how absurd the Thanksgiving holiday is. All you have to do to celebrate the most American of holidays is to eat until you think you are going to be ill, and then fall ass-backwards into your Lazy Boy recliner and wait until the tryptophan kicks in while the Cowboys once again pummel the Lions. I always felt like the name Lazy Boy was an interesting name choice for a chair. I have to assume this is because the name The Decrepit Fat Ass is less catchy and lost out at the pitch meeting. The name Lazy Boy doesn't hurt my feeling because I chose to embrace life on my own terms, and I have extraordinarily thick skin. Besides, it is true to life, sometimes I am a lazy boy. We are all fully aware of how to obtain weight loss, but we often enjoy staying in zone I refer to as Mc-denial. The formula to weight loss is simple, we must just move more than we eat. But come on, what's more enjoyable, an hours' worth of aerobics or a fist full of Oreos? It's not exactly a tossup, is it?
As American's we do not want to be fed a heathy dose of the truth, we would rather have someone blow smoke up our keister and tell us if we have failed it's not our fault. Just remember when I point my index finger, I have three more pointing back at myself. I have had many candid conversations with my dad about which is more deadly, cheeseburgers or cigarettes. At least cigarettes are fat free, right? However, maybe that argument is weaker than I thought because the old man smoked Newport's for the better part of fifty years and is no longer around to talk about it. Besides, they have been calling them cancer sticks since the second world war so it's not like he didn't know what he was getting into. Some might think of it as insensitive to joke about the death of a loved one no matter what the circumstance but trust me the old man would relish the idea of entertaining the masses even in his demise. And that goes double for me.
Case in point about fad diets, remember the diet from the 80's where all you were allowed to eat was grapefruit and hard-boiled eggs? Sounds a bit like a prison menu doesn't it. I remember my mom and stepdad being on that diet when I was in high school (in which they never lost a pound). One night while in the throughs of caloric attack I found my stepdad face down in a gallon of Rocky Road while watching Benny Hill. Mom was already very aware of his ice cream fetish, but she was unaware of his fascination with Mr. Hill. I'm pretty sure I started an argument between them on that topic. Benny's television formula was not all that complex. There was one old man who was constantly slapped on the head and at some point, his pants would fall down only to reveal that he was wearing only women's thigh high stockings. It also had a rather large cast of well-endowed, and half-dressed English beauties who always felt the need to bend over and pick up something. In this way both benny and ice cream are a bit alike, neither are good for you, but no doubt enjoyable.
There is a book for every problem that exists. If you have body odor there is a chapter dog eared for that, it's called soap. If you have never changed a spark plug on your Massey Ferguson, there is a pamphlet that will teach you to become a tractor mechanic. If you have trouble hitting the books there is an app to help, make you more studious. A few Christmases Eve's ago I found myself changing out my hot water tank. If you think that is shocking, just try taking a cold shower in the month of December. The particulars somewhat evaded me so before the night was up, I caught myself watching a YouTube video about it. Evidently, once I see it done before my eyes it becomes elementary. I have a next-door neighbor who recently told me that anytime he feels anxious or depressed he has an app on his phone that he finds helpful. What does it do, rub his shoulders and speak to him in a soft tone like Fred Rogers? If I develop an app, it will have a hand that comes out, whacks you on the back of the head, and tells you to get over yourself. What can I say, sometimes the old school in me is hard to shake.
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