Fancy Therapist and I were having our usual chat, mulling over how we can make H into the man that we both know is inside him, just under the surface. The benefit of being Fancy is that self-realization and self-discipline aren’t at the core of change: it’s about figuring out ways to pay others to give us insight and whip our butts into shape. As we talk, FT is forever taking notes. On his list for the week is to inform H about something amazing called “The Internet” where one can buy his wife gifts without actually leaving the sofa. You would think he would have already figured this out, but whatever.
On my list for the week is to find a super Fancy Personal Trainer for H. If he can’t come to terms with the reality that he will never get himself to the gym without a serious motivation (called wasted cash), then I will do it for him. He promised that if he hadn’t made a serious change in his physical health by the end of the month, he’d “try” having a trainer. And the way things are going, well. FT said, “If he went every day all day from now until then, he’d still fail. Hire the fucking trainer.”
At the end of our session, Fancy Therapist, said, “You know, I read your blog and it was hilarious. My wife kept asking me what I was looking at, I was laughing so loud.”
“Gosh, thanks!” I said, completely humbled. Or maybe “humbled” isn’t the word. More like “shocked’ that he spent time on my life and hadn’t charged me for it.
“No really, terrific! I think I smell a screen play. But when that happens, I want you to know something. Robert Redford plays me. Do you hear me? Robert Redford. Not that Dustin Fucking Hoffman guy. Robert Redford.”
What was I saying about reality?
By the way, it's still GIVEAWAY time! You've got until Sunday night to get yourself some Fancy! Just tell me how a little Fancy on the outside would let your inner Fancy shine!