Alex Churchill

“Tony Robbins transformed himself from washing dishes in his bathtub and being homeless at times to starting 15 companies and now making over $30 million a year and reaching millions of people.”

I was once just like you. In fact, as bad as you are? I was much, much worse.

Fatter. And uglier. Well, at least uglier that you. Yes you ma’am. I wasn’t fatter than you. But I was uglier. Only just slightly. And since I am a man and you are a woman, we’ll just call it even – and from there, launch a transformation.

Yes, I was fat, and ugly, and I washed my dishes in the bathtub. It’s kind of amazing I managed to do this, since the tool shed I was living in at the time did not actually have a bathtub. Now, I have six of them. And I confine the dish washing to just five of them. One for each course of a five course meal. The sixth I use for the purpose for which it was built. Distilling bath tub gin. With which I drown my sorrows, and transform myself, into a drunker version of myself.

So when I use the past tense to describe my dishwashing in the bathtub, I use it to describe the recent past. Just this morning in fact, when the last thing I did before leaving my mansion was wash my smoothie glass in the heart shaped therapy tub in my home gym that I have classified for “blended beverages, breakfast”. I reserve a tub for them because I have a special affinity for this most transformative of foods. They begin life in solid form and embrace transformation to a liquid one pulse button at a time – we can all learn a lesson from smoothies. And, I suppose, milkshakes.

But as I mentioned, just this morning, I was fat, ugly and washing dishes in the fish course bath tub in my mansion. I only call it “a mansion” with fat, ugly people. People who live in such houses don’t call them mansions. They call them “houses”. They also call limousines “cars” and yachts “boats”. With these people – my peers – I refer to this palace as “my place”. Or “my pad”. With people I suspect to be my superiors, I’ll call it “the party house” in order to imply that I keep this six bath tub palace just to entertain – that I live somewhere else. In such circles, I’ll often refer to “the beach house” in vague terms, despite the fact that I don’t have a beach house. And I’m terrified of water in any case. Which is the reason I wash my dishes in a bathtub. Or, put another way, a bathtub is a transformative arena – where my dishes morph from dirty to clean.

About that. When I say “wash”, I don’t actually mean “wash”. I sort of mean “stack”. Or “smash”. The idea is that I throw my dishes into the bath tub and smash them into little bits with a hammer. Bits so small that you can’t tell the difference between a discarded morsel of pancetta and a fragment of Royal Doulton.  And then I move on. To a new house, preferably in a new neighborhood, before anyone discovers my horrible secret. It would be much more difficult to sell ugly fatties on transformation if they knew I can’t even transform a dirty glass into a clean one.

My ability to continue doing this is helped along greatly by the 15 companies and the $30 million a year that vomiting transformation onto paying audiences have brought me. Smashing every dish you eat on don’t come cheap. To say nothing of the upkeep on the party house and the beach house (see, it works doesn’t it?). Yes, I earn a great deal of money transformingerizing. I describe how at my lowest low, backstage in fact, I was just like you – downing Little Debbies by the palette, smoking Camel unfiltereds and wearing cotton/poly bends – something that I find transformative in and of itself. The blend transforms just slacks into no-iron, wrinkle resistant cotton Dockers. Again, a lesson lurks in there somewhere.

Today, the lesson I choose to whip out of my pants is that when I strap on the hands-free head set and hit the stage I can put these insecurities behind me, and put my former self behind me, and encourage you to do the same! Transform!

And after your transformation is complete, you can stroll thoughtfully out to the parking lot. And when you get back to your car, you can feel the affinity with me and continue the transformation by transforming your minivan into my private jet the same way I transform my private jet into my home away from home – with tiny, tiny bottles of booze. I prefer the glass ones – filled with bath tub gin. Much easier to smash than plastic.

This morning, The Reformed Broker wrote a succinct, deeply personal “why I write” piece. Read it now, I’ll wait.

Now, if that doesn’t inspire you to get on your ass and put your ideas into words, nothing will. In fact, after I read that, I went over to my local coffee shop to do a few hours of work and was affected by it in a completely different way.

I went up to the counter to get my cup, and as I was in a holding pattern, staring at the big screen above the espresso machine, I happened to look over at the woman to my left. She was crying. Or rather, she was on the verge of absolutely breaking down in tears – big, welling water works filled red rimmed eyes.

Now, the big point of The Reformed Broker’s screed was how blogging like a madman has changed his professional life in ways that he could not possibly have anticipated when he started doing it. Primarily, it has expanded his knowledge set to the point that it has made him care more. From the sounds of it, possibly too much. But that point didn’t answer the question he posed at the start of the post – “how do you have so much time to blog?” And he answered that question with another one:

“The correct question is not how can I find the time to blog, rather, it’s how could I not?”

I’m not saying “how could I not?” popped into my head as I looked at this well dressed, middle aged woman on the edge of some kind of crisis, but I broke from what is expected in these situations. And while this is not something totally out of character for me, TRB’s post framed it for me almost instantly once the moment was gone.

So I asked her “You OK?” She looked over as squarely as she could and said “divorce”, grabbed her coffee and sprinted out of the place, weeping openly. As she spun and run, I managed to say “Oh, I’m so sorry…” I don’t really know if she heard.

Then, I called my wife. How could I not?

Admittedly, this wasn’t something I did for a client. Or a co-worker. Or even a family member. But I think the point is that caring isn’t something you can turn off – it’s how it manifests itself that counts. In broad strokes, care about almost anything – except yourself.

So thanks Reformed Broker, I sincerely hope she heard you.