I am reading the paper, minding my own business, when an ad jumps out and verbally roundhouse kicks me in the confidence.

Not invites me.

Not encourages me.

YELLS.

First line grabs me by the waistband and says, "Hey, you. Yeah, you. With the ass that enters the room before you do".

I look around like this paper just called me fat in front of company.

No hello.

No, how are you?

No respect.

Just straight cheeks to the soul.

They are not asking if I want to get healthier.

They are asking if my backside keeps jiggling long after the conversation ends.

That is not marketing.

That is a hate crime.

Then they tell me it is time to retire my super-size sweatpants, deal with my crack situation, and drag my wife in, too.

Together.

Like a double date with disappointment.

Nothing says romance like a two-for-one guilt package.

Then they explain the program.

Weekly sessions where they sit you down and remind you of every fuckin bad decision you ever made involving a refrigerator.

Forty-seven visits in one night.

They know the number.

That means they counted.

That means there is a chart.

That means someone watched me eat cold chicken at two in the morning like a raccoon chowing down on garbage.

They also offer counselling to help you stop emotionally bonding with food you are no longer allowed to touch.

That is not dieting.

That is a goddamn breakup.

You do not just stop seeing pizza.

You drive past it slowly and whisper,

I still love you.

Then comes the food plan.

Rabbit food.

No flavour.

No joy.

Just crunchy sadness and emergency fart weather every twenty minutes.

You eat one leaf, and your stomach files a police report.

But wait.

?

Diet alone will not fix it.

Now comes exercise.

Which I assume involves shame, mirrors, and some twenty-year-old named Tracey yelling motivational quotes while I watch my nipples bounce in high definition.

This is not a fitness center.

This is an intervention with sweat.

Somewhere right now, a couple is reading this ad in silence, then slowly turning to look at their couch like it slept with their best friend.

That couch knows.

And here is the worst part.

I respect it.

They did not promise happiness.

They did not promise abs.

They did not promise confidence.

They promised results through verbal abuse.

That is honesty.

That is leadership.

That is a place that will absolutely tell you your ass is lying to you.

I folded the paper.

Went to the fridge.

Opened it.

Stared at a leftover slice of pizza like it was my last cigarette.

And whispered, "We had a good go, didn?t we?

?????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of

The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre