Of the many things I'm thankful for, one is that I don't encounter the term "life coach" very often. The term conjures all manner of physiological chicanery in me, most notably moderate dyspepsia. The discomfort passes quickly, for which I'm also thankful, but I'm afraid we're all saddled with the phenomenon of life coaching for a while yet, which might mean an entirely new battery of prescriptions for me, including regular strength Pepcid.
I'll admit to a touch of facetiae regarding my attitude about so-called "life coaching," but the recent emergence and popularity of this strain of Chickenshit For the Soul inspires more than a bit of skepticism in me. Still, I'll give any topic a fighting chance, so I conducted some, and since I'm in a confessional mood, admittedly, piecemeal research about life coaching.
But maybe my methodology was the proper one - I learned that life coaching is a rather piecemeal affair itself, a bricolage comprised of academic and professional sources. To put the latter more precisely, corporate sources. Indeed, life coaching really began to flourish in the 80's, when a bunch of suits found themselves out of work and needed bucking up. To paraphrase one executive, "We really like it!"
And it's not only the corporate types who really like it. I submit: Oprah Winfrey is nothing less than our preeminent life coach. If her ratings pre-OWN were any barometer, Americans like to be told that they're living all wrong, and they believe that only a celebrity of Winfrey's stature can set them straight .
That phenomenon merits a piece of its own, but some bulking up is in order. Truly, our rap sheet of life-defects is a long one, and we're dying to clear it. We like to be told that we shouldn't smoke, that we should eat only gluten-free food, that that food should also contain as little flavor content as possible, and that we should read Deepak Chopra and Faulkner, in the interest of "wholeness." As a final thump in the chest, she invites celebrities to luxuriate, to excruciating length, about their quality of life (a notable example is neo-hippie/timeless dingbat Gwyneth Paltrow.) She's not above sneaking a fraud or two onto her stage, either. She also scolded us about being fat. Oprah, starve thyself!
What I've delineated thus far might incite some unpleasantness in you. I would hope not; rather, I'd hope that you think it at once a bit disturbing, but also laughable. Of this I can assure you: you haven't been disturbed and amused until you've encountered a life-change facilitator. They like to be referred to as life coaches. I like to laugh at that.
My Uncomfortable Encounter occurred recently. I'd prefer not to state how recently, but recently enough. I'd never seen him around, so I thought I'd introduce myself as he did laundry and fielded phone call after text after phone call after text. He introduced himself as "the one who drives the BMW," and I introduced myself as "Don." Our conversation was off to a sterling start. I told him I hadn't seen him around, to which he replied that he works all the time (and why not? I'm sure he loves his work. He did most of the talking. More on that later.) Strictly in the interest of maintaining friendly chit-chat at this point, I asked him what he does. He may have said, "I'm a life coach, brah," but don't hold me to the term of endearment part. I can confirm, with God as my witness, that he did say that he's a life coach.
The perceptive reader has noted throughout that I cast a sideways glance at this entire life-coaching business. It is only partly in jest when I state that my gut told me the enterprise is fishy. Still, when the guy, who, as the perceptive reader has also noted, is still nameless at this point, told me what he does, I replied that I've been looking for a life coach. To be crystal clear, to hector was not my intent. Since my discharge, I have had one hell of a time finding a therapist (I'm quite happy and more relieved to say that I finally found one.) My stay in and subsequent discharge from the hospital, if you'll allow, yanked my third-eye wide open. Post-hospital, I've accomplished more than my wildest reveries ever suggested; still, there is a stack of dirty dishes in the sink that won't be denied. In short, I still need help organizing and, in some cases, reorienting my life.
I was willing to entertain, and, as it turns out, be entertained by My Beemer's Parking Space is Wherever I Say It Is' spiel. Permission granted, he unloosed a barrage of life-coach speak that, in a heroic effort on my part to distill it all, was a predictable enough admixture of Oprah-esque ersatz empowerment clap-trap and corporate shuck and jive, a true bastard sired by the Alec Baldwin character from Glengarry Glen Ross and, yes, Oprah Winfrey. A blow-by-blow account is not necessary, but the highlights are delectable. In due time, which is soon.
I have not yet revealed the nickname of I Park My BMW in Handicapped Spots Because the Handicapped are Pussies because I have, to this point, neglected his chief characteristics. A somewhat thorough description is necessary because I think it might apply categorically to life-coaches. If you encounter anyone who fits the following profile, there's a better-than-average chance that you've run into a life coach. It's up to you to fight or flee.
The guy's built like American cars used to be: able to withstand wreckage and inflict damage to other cars. One also might say that his physical profile matches that of a third-string middle linebacker for an NFL wildcard contender or the tackling dummy for any NFL team. The guy has, as he might put it, "creds," too. Lots of them. He named them all, yet he did so so quickly that I don't what they are. He's an ordained minister to boot for all I know. Of course, anyone not crammed to the gills with Xanax can tell you that credentials do not confer intelligence. Ram Tough's certainly not the brightest guy, but he's no dumbbell. I'm certain that if he were inclined, I Crushed a Datsun and its Occupants the Other Day, Bro, Ha-HA could Google himself to this very entry. It would take him a couple of minutes to come to terms with the effrontery, but surely by minute three, my doors are off the hinges and the last he sees of me is my ass flying out the bedroom window. Insufferable to be sure, Dandy is one to contend with. Believe me, folks, Dandy is closer to comfort to me than he is to you, and that's real, real close. Think of Dandy as Henry Rollins, only without a heart or record collection.
Dandy let it be known that he can, in his words, "see through the bullshit," and that his job is to cut through it. If that were my job, I'd take all the vacation and sick time I could get, and then some. It's like raw food, in his estimation: you want the most nutrients, you eat raw food. So Dandy likes to give it to you raw. Above all, he likes to "Keep It Simple, Stupid," which is simple enough.
Simple, stupid, and insulting. What Dandy doesn't understand is that I see through bullshit pretty well myself, and I was sizing him up from his ridiculous spiel forward. He's not a therapist - that's so 70's. No, he's a life coach, and as a coach, it's his job to shape sulking sacks of shit into statuesque Supermen and spineless corporate minnows into merciless corporate sharks. He'll turn you into a Bloodthirsty Franklin Planner Who Draws His Own Parking Lines, and if that means busting your door down at the crack of dawn, that's what he's gonna do. You'll do pushups until you curse your birth, you'll memorize and recite Deepak Chopra if it takes forgetting your first son's date of birth, you'll eat steel cut oats for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until you don't need the steel anymore because you're eating those bitches whole with your own teeth now, not the false ones you had before, and you'll pay him handsomely and you'll like it.
LIfe is funny, don't you know: I learned a life lesson from Dandy. I don't want the likes of him shaping any aspect of my life. I don't even want him to show me how to program a remote control. My stay in the hospital was a far greater teacher than Dandy, in his most bat-shit crazy dreams, could ever hope to be.
I wouldn't be doing right by my new friend if I didn't offer him a some simple advice of my own:
Coach, hear thyself.
Also, move your car. Someone who needs the spot might have a mind to have it towed off. BOO-YA!
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