If self-help books actually helped anyone, their authors would put themselves out of business. Their covers promise to “heighten your awareness,” but on the back flap they should also add, “Just long enough to make you aware that you’re crazy.”
“Self-Help” is a billion dollar industry that convinces readers they are capable of buying books. When I worked in a bookstore, unstable customers would flock to the section and take up residence in the overstuffed chairs nearby for hours on end. As these people flipped the pages, they would either sniff quietly into tissues or crush their thumbs with a fist, depending on their affliction. If someone requested an anger management book that was out of stock, I flinched. If they wanted an O-C-D title that had been dog-eared, I winced. And if they wanted a Bipolar’s journal, I surrendered.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not disparaging people with problems. We all have problems and it’s our right to solve them. I just don’t understand how doctors like Phil and Laura and Wayne can live with themselves. Their books don’t do anything but install swimming pools in their backyards. And they know it.
Take Joel Osteen, noted televangelist and motivational speaker. His first book, Your Best Life Now: 7 Steps to Living at Your Full Potential, hit the shelves in 2004 and was an enormous success. It was atop the New York Times Bestseller list for months and sold millions. I’ve read it and have to admit that it makes a lot of valid points. It even made me feel good about myself. Fantastic! But then a couple years later, I spotted his new book on a Wal-mart check stand: Become a Better You.
Hey, wait a sec. You mean to say that even though I’m living at my full potential, that’s still not good enough? Shit! Here, I thought I had it together. I’m sure the millions who bought the first book thought so too. I better buy this book immediately and see what I’m still doing wrong. Thanks, Joel.
Then Mr. Osteen makes an appearance on Oprah. The world gathers around their television sets and awaits further instruction. The show finally begins and — hmm — something has changed. Did Oprah get a new sofa? No. Has she lost weight? No. Is it Joel that changed? Hmm. Maybe that’s it. Ah, yes! His teeth. They’re whiter, they’re brighter, they’re bigger. And his hair. It’s thicker, it’s longer, it’s sexier. And, wow, his face. It’s tighter, it’s smoother, it’s richer.
My dad would have scoffed if a copy of Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff appeared on his desk. His armpits were soaked. Weeds in the sidewalk were an abomination. Off-kilter staples were unacceptable. Unkempt fingernails were the end of the world. These requirements drove me nuts as a kid, as I’m sure they did my siblings and definitely did my mother. Yet the older I get, the more I appreciate his example. To be sure, Dad was obsessive and we all would have benefited had he lightened up. But now that he’s gone, it’s easier to see where he was coming from. He approached life like a leaky faucet. Let it drip and it will turn into a flood. Fix it and you can move on.
If I somehow knew I only had a few minutes left to live, I’d want my little brother by my side. Curtis is only 20 months younger than I am, so we share pretty much the exact same history. While we don’t have a lot in common, I’m pretty sure he knows me better than anyone else. And vice-versa. We never have a lot to say to one another, but that’s because we don’t have to. When he’s around, I don’t have to justify why my impulse is to sweat the small stuff. He knows. Neither do I have to explain how Mom taught us when the small stuff wasn’t stuff at all. He knows that too.
I believe that magic is anything that works. If self-help books make a person feel better, terrific. If they brighten someone’s day, more power to them. But make no mistake — they’re nothing more than a stocking stuffer. As far as I’m concerned, nothing good comes from helping yourself. I think it’s far more important that we help each other. Help your fellow man sweat the small stuff, I say. That way we can all sit back, relax, and enjoy the big stuff.
Together.
