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February 2000 Issue, Volume 2

I Was Almost Self-Involved

By Caroline Tiger

Americans love a buffet. Salad bars, fixins' bars, entire buffet-style restaurants are a familiar sight along our streets and strip-malled highways.

What is it about buffets? The familiar, undemanding fare--simply baked ziti, beef, fish or chicken? The waves of nostalgia they prompt for school cafeterias and lunch ladies in hairnets? The bargains? The big portions? The feeling of control you get from helping yourself?

"Self-Improvement" (the new, more politically correct term for "self-help") is the Olde Country Buffet of America's consumer culture. People think they're getting a bargain by helping themselves to easy, unintimidating answers: seven steps to a more efficient, slimmer, more assertive, successful you. Just as buffets are the fast, cheap and easy answer to self-fueling, self-help consists of easy-to-digest messages broken down into user-friendly sound bites. Its practitioners prescribe simple antidotes for heartache and daily malaise, ones that take significantly less time than figuring out what you really dislike about yourself or your life. Not to mention less money than a shrink or daily doses of [insert name of antidepressant drug here].

One day last month, I visited the self-improvement section of the bookstore, curious as to the appeal of self-help gurus--those personalities who drive the industry, and who have recreated themselves as brand-names: Anthony Robbins (Awaken the Giant Within), John Gray (Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus), Stephen Covey (7 Habits of Highly Effective People), Jack Canfield (Chicken Soup).

There I stood, proverbial tray in hand, sandwiched by stacks of self-improvement tomes. Where to start? I pulled random books from the shelf. So many of these answers to life's nagging questions came in 7's, 10's, and 13's. Thumbing through one and then another, I was hit with self-doubt about my own abilities to assert myself, manage my time effectively, be part of a functional relationship, reach my spiritual goals, pull off a successful dinner party. Most of the books' chapters were framed by tempting teasers: "Creating a Compelling Future," "How To Change Anything in Your Life," "Financial Destiny: Small Steps to a Small (or Large) Fortune."

There were the gruff lunch ladies, heavy ladles at the ready: Judge Judy's Beauty Fades, Dumb is Forever, Dr. Laura's Ten Stupid Things Women Do To Mess Up Their Lives. One oversized yellow spine seemed particularly harsh: The Idiot's Guide to Enhancing Self-Esteem. (Chin up, you moron! Hey dumb-ass, you're the tops!)

But for the most part, everyone offered heaping helpings of comfort food, especially the Hollywood auteurs. And they'd been through it. You see, celebrities are people, too. People who need people. Suzanne Somers, Cokie Roberts and her husband, Star Jones and Emme--all were reaching out to me, nearly convincing me to contribute my hard-earned money to the $563-million-a-year self-help publishing boom.

But who to pick as my own personal growth guru? Anthony Robbins? I skimmed Awaken the Giant Within, his "National Bestseller," stopping at the chapter called "Vocabulary of Ultimate Success." As a writer, I'm always interested in the wielding of words for the purpose of power. Tony told me something I already knew: that the words I use will ultimately shape my destiny. But he wanted me to water down my destiny by using modifiers to soften emotional intensity, for example during a confrontation with a loved one. Instead of saying I'm angry, I should say I'm "a tad out of sorts" or "a bit peeved." His whole strategy is to speak like an effeminate, aging Englishman. Instead of saying "pissed off," say "tinkled." Tinkled? You're not irritated, you're "stimulated"; not overwhelmed, but "in demand." Finally, not rejected, but "misunderstood."

For more advice on communicating effectively, I consulted a book called Power Talking (50 Ways to Say What You Mean and Get What You Want). This author must have consulted the same spin-doctor as Robbins. The advice here was an identical brand of verbiage-twisting. If you're likely to say such self-defeating things as: "I'm failure-prone. Look at what a mess I've made of my life already," then stop. Start saying: "Failure will never overtake me if my desire to succeed is strong enough, and I act upon it." But will saying this help you if you're really this much of a failure? This I couldn't stomach.

None of these books seemed worthy of my cash. Especially John Gray's volume of relationship credos, which upheld every sexist stereotype that pollutes our society. It could have been a handbook for the Promise Keepers. Men (or "Martians," as Gray likes to call them) "value power, competency, efficiency, and achievement." Whereas women (yes, "Venusians") value love, communication, beauty, and relationships. Huh? Furthermore, "a woman's sense of self is defined through her feelings and the quality of her relationships." I hate to damage my destiny by using such an ironic, stereotypically Gen-X expression, but oh, well: Whatever. I think I lost my appetite.

These easy answers were no bargain. For $12.95 (paperback) to $24.95 (hardcover), John Gray, Anthony Robbins or the like will cloud your vision with sexist babble or mindless minutiae. Their books only whet your appetite. For a little more money, you can attend their motivational lectures. For a beefy $3,495, Robbins' weeklong seminar will really change your life. And if you choose to attend his six-day, seven-night Date with Destiny in Fiji (Tony and Becky Robbins' "private hideaway"), you'll be set back $11,995. Oh, and airfare is additional. What a scam--fast food at gourmet prices.

It seems logical to assume, from the existence of these excessive options, that people are willing to pay lots of money for easy answers. The self-help industry has come a long way from infomercials. Now, many more outlets exist: books, the Internet, lecture circuits, and weeklong seminars in tropical locales. What convinces consumers to invest so much in what is obviously empty calories? Maybe it's the nature of our hectic world, where people juggle jobs and families and have no time to eat breakfast, that makes the idea of improving a life in seven, ten, or twelve steps too appealing to pass up.

The best buffet I've ever attended was a down-on-the-farm smorgasbord with all-you-can-eat, homemade Shoe-fly pie, in Amish Country, Pennsylvania. Olde Country Buffet pales in comparison. As do most self-improvement antidotes, especially when they cost as much as a five-star dinner at a five-star hotel in Paris (not including airfare, of course).

It seems to me that the best way to help yourself is to go to the root of the problem. And if you want a good, authentic buffet, skip the fast food and head for farm country. It may take more time and energy, but there you will find fresh ingredients, authenticity and a whole different kind of bullshit.

Caroline Tiger is a writer in Philadelphia. And, yes, that is her real name.