Blogcritics Author: Craig Harper

Happiness 101 Now Taught in Colleges and Graduate Schools Around U.S.

Craig Harper — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 10:27:15 EDT

Despite all our stuff, we're no happier; and probably less happy. It�s now something we need to teach because we're losing the skill.
Before I start, let me say that I don't have the definitive answer to this discussion (or any). I don't think there is one when it comes to this topic. Like most, I'm still exploring it, which is why I have chosen to make it just that - a discussion, an interactive chat, and a group exploration.I'll open the door on it and you guys can come in and...

The Ancient Art of Complication

Craig Harper — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 16:56:42 EDT

Do you ever marvel at some people's uncanny ability to make the simple so complex? The straight forward, anything but?
Do you ever marvel at some people's uncanny ability to make the simple complex? To make the straight forward anything but? A ten-minute task into a two-week saga? I meet these people every day. Please stop sending them my way. They are the woe-is-me brigade; The Brothers (and Sisters) Grim. (The real Brothers Grimm were two German dudes who...

The Road to Self-Help: Freak University (Part One)

Craig Harper — Fri, 7 Sep 2007 09:33:19 EDT

It's 7:45 on Saturday morning and I am doing my best to stay in my current state of being -- unconscious, hung-over, stationary, comfortable, horizontal.
It's 7:45 on Saturday morning and I am doing my best to stay in my current state of being -- unconscious, hung-over, stationary, comfortable, horizontal. Unfortunately for me, something, or as it would turn out, someone, is destroying my tranquility with incessant thumping on my front door. Every thump is accompanied by a sharp stabbing pain...

Wasting Time at the Gym

Craig Harper — Thu, 6 Sep 2007 07:45:45 EDT

Creating your best body needs to be a strategic, intelligent process. It simply means train smart.
So today I'm taking my Motivator, Story-teller, Drill Sergeant and Politically-Incorrect-Rude-Bloke hats off and putting on my Exercise Scientist beret.Yep, you read right; beret. Ready, steady, go.If you want to change your body in some way, then today's chat might be of interest to you. I get a bunch of letters every week from lots of frustrated...

Celebrate the Weirdo

Craig Harper — Tue, 4 Sep 2007 07:33:46 EDT

For much of my life, I have felt like a weirdo. There. I said it.
What I'm about to write will resonate with many of you. It will surprise some of you and hopefully, it will encourage a few of you as well.For much of my life, I have felt like a... weirdo.There. I said it. Not all the time... but often. In a range of situations and settings and for a range of reasons.Even as a moderately successful business owner,...

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

The Parable of the Fat Kid

Craig Harper — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 09:44:52 EDT

Once upon a time there was a kid. A kid who loved to eat. Not unlike many kids, really. But this kid was different. He didn't just enjoy the occasional cookie or bowl of ice-cream. Or burger and fries. No, he lived for food. And when he wasn't eating, he was thinking about eating. At school he struggled to concentrate in class because he was always fantasizing about his next meal. Food equaled pleasure -- and who wouldn't want an instant 'pleasure fix'?So easy, so convenient, so accessible and so... instant. He was the poster boy for the quick-fix generation. By the time the kid was five, he was fat. By the time he was seven, he was really fat. Fortunately for him though, it wasn't real fat; it was puppy-fat.His loving mother had taught him all about puppy-fat.It was a temporary condition which affected some boys and girls. She told him that when he got to a certain age, it would all go. So that was kinda comforting. Temporary fat... okay.Nothing to really worry about.Although the kids at school didn't really buy into his mum's (mom's) whole puppy-fat theory. They came more from the "hey, you're a big fat pig and we don't wanna play with you" school of thought. While the taunting got him down at times, a chubby little finger in the peanut butter jar always proved to be somewhat therapeutic and relieve his pain. Food was his escape."How do they squeeze all that pleasure into one little jar?" he would ask himself. "So much peanut butter and so little time," he would joke with his family. They always laughed at his jokes. Always supportive. They loved him so much."He is so funny and creative," his parents would tell their friends."And gigantic," the friends would be thinking.By the time he was twelve he was huge. Morbidly obese. And according to dear-old mum, still in the puppy-fat phase. She still loved to cook for her "little boy" because it was one of the few things that "gave him pleasure". And making him happy made her happy. And a happy home is a good home.At school he was misunderstood. His mother wondered why everyone in his class was so determined to make his life a misery. Ironically, everyone in his class wondered why he was so determined to eat himself to death. Yep, home was his refuge, mum was his protector and food was his only joy.By the time he was fifteen he weighed over a hundred and fifty kilos (330 lbs), he was a diabetic, had joint problems, respiratory problems, high blood pressure, and was the subject of constant ridicule. But not at home.At home the "F" word was never mentioned. Too painful. His family would 'love him at all costs'. His mother was always desperate to 'protect' him. And feed him ten thousand calories a day... er, I mean, love him.If anyone labeled him fat, she would bare her fangs. The fact that he weighed as much as two or three of his classmates didn't seem to register with her. "Sure he's carrying a little fat" she would admit to her concerned friends but "like his father, he's big-boned."Her friends would roll their eyes and bite their tongues. Mostly."The whole family are endomorphic; genetically predisposed to be... bigger", she told her best friend one day."Maybe the whole family eats too much and moves to little," her friend replied.They never spoke again."How dare she attack my family like that; why do people need to be so cruel? Bitch."By the time the Junior reached his final year of high school, he could barely walk. He would struggle for fifty feet or so and then have to lean on something or, preferably, sit. He missed as many days of school as he attended. And when he did make it to class, he had to sit at a specially built desk. He looked like an animal in a special enclosure at the zoo. He and his industrial-strength desk sat there like an island in a sea of 'normal-sized' people and desks.His ever-increasing mass meant that he now had a permanent wheeze, endured constant painful chafing where his massive thighs rubbed, sweated profusely, and smelled like a yak. A smelly yak.He also had some practical challenges when he went to the toilet but I don't want to ruin your lunch or dinner, so I'll leave it at that. More and more concerned people offered their support and help to the mother. She told them to mind their own business."I know what's best for my son," she would snap at them.One day the phone rang. It was her son's school.The blood drained from the mother's face, she dropped the phone and screamed a scream that only a mother could. Her whole body began to shake and she fell to the floor. Her husband picked up the phone and spoke to the person on the other end. He too dropped the phone and began to sob uncontrollably.The woman lifted her head, turned to her husband and moaned, "How could this have possibly happened?"The end.While this story is just that - a story - for an increasing number of people, this tale is a tragic reality. I have seen this story (or similar) in the flesh many times over the years. Scenarios like this are playing out more and more every day, despite us being more educated, informed and equipped (to fight obesity) than ever before. As long as we choose to call our fat kids anything but fat, we're doomed. It's not about being offensive or insensitive, it's about being real, practical and honest. It's not about inflicting emotional damage, it's about preventing physical damage. It's about creating forever change. It's about helping, not hurting. It's about changing thinking, culture, habits and bodies.Forever.It's about being less concerned with political correctness and more concerned with doing what's right. And to the 'expert' who argued with me on radio last week that we should never weigh kids because of the potential emotional damage, maybe you should be more concerned with finding a practical, physical solution for our fat kids -- because based on our current trajectory, some of them will be dead from obesity-related conditions before they have a chance to really embrace all those 'emotional issues' anyway.Let us know your thoughts on this emotional and provocative subject (either way). Peace.

Craig Harper (B.Ex.Sci.) is the #1 ranked Motivational Speaker by Google. He is a qualified exercise scientist, author, columnist, radio presenter, television host and owner of one of the largest personal training centres in the world. Motivational Speaker - Craig Harper

Living the Dream - or the Nightmare

Craig Harper — Wed, 22 Aug 2007 17:49:26 EDT

He was thirty years old. Or possibly forty or fifty. Maybe sixty. For this story he was thirty, but it doesn't really matter. He may even have been a she. He may even be you.He had been swimming in circles for years. And when he wasn't swimming, he was treading water. Or peddling backwards on his not-very-cool bike. His career, finances, relationships, education, attitude, goals, and dreams were all like the pond at the end of his street -- stagnant. Stinky. Unhealthy. He knew it. And he hated it.He was the master of incompletion. He had "almost" done a million things. He had threatened greatness, but never delivered. He periodically felt sorry for himself. Okay, often. He played the blame game. He was a time waster. An excuse maker. He had spoken far too much and done far too little. For far too long.He had rationalised, justified, and explained away half of his life. Or more. He was talented. Talented and fearful. Talented and lazy. He tried to be the big funny guy. But underneath, he was the big sad guy. The big lonely guy. The big frustrated guy. The big angry guy. But one day something happened. The time had come and he was over it. The switch had flicked -- and he was ready. At last.Ready to do whatever it would take. Ready to change. He would do anything. ANYthing. He was sick of himself. His pathetic existence. His inability to get the job done. He wanted more. He wanted success. Fulfilment, happiness. Money. Heaps of it. And toys. Cars, houses, incredible clothes... stuff. Plenty of that, too.He was tired of scraping by and making do. Surviving instead of thriving. And he was sick of being out of shape. He wanted to be hot. Irresistible. Buffed, ripped, and rock hard. A six-pack would be good. Maybe a well-placed vein or two. He wanted it all. And why not? If others could "live the dream" why couldn't he? Just gotta work for it, right? He was prepared to work. Finally. He was prepared to change his attitude. And at last, he was prepared to get uncomfortable. The genesis...He decided that his metamorphosis would need to start with some serious study and research. He began to devour self-help books, reading at least one book every week. He wanted to learn from the best. The richest, the smartest, the coolest. The best of the best. He loved those rags to riches stories; they inspired him. He looked up to the rich people who came from nothing because he saw himself in their story.He visualised himself with money - in his big house - with his expensive car; it was a pretty picture. He felt drawn to one particular personal development guru who happened to live on his own island. "The coolest thing ever would be to have your own island," he fantasized. "One day..."When he wasn't selling fridges at Fridges R Us, he immersed himself in his new "success mindset", learning the lingo and the culture. He started to weave terms like "paradigm" and "neuro-linguistic programming" into the tapestry of his daily conversations. His work colleagues were confused. And amused.He didn't really want to be like them any more. He started to resent what they represented in his life. He began to mock their "ignorance" and lack of drive. Which made for an interesting dynamic in the lunch room. He didn't care."If people don't share my vision, that's their loss," he would tell himself.One of his numerous books made it very clear: "You have to look after number one in this world, because if you don't, no one else will.""Kill or be killed -- the corporate world is a jungle and only the strongest survive," he told one of his bemused workmates over his skinless chicken sandwich one lunch time.He enrolled in numerous courses and programs. Got himself a life coach. Became a personal development aficionado. Some would say a self-help slut. Not me though; I don't speak like that.He couldn't get enough of the "get-rich-in-record-time" stuff. He walked on hot coals. He flew on a trapeze to overcome some kind of childhood fear. Or something like that. He wasn't exactly sure about the circus bit, but his life coach said it was a must.As part of his image and attitude overhaul, he got himself a shoulder tattoo; apparently some Chinese symbols meaning something about a warrior. And some chest and arm waxing. In the car, his favourite rock station was replaced with personal development CD's. Positive affirmations were posted throughout the house. Gems like:"I am a high-achiever.""I am a millionaire.""I am a winner in the game of life." These adorned every spare inch of wall space.He got himself a trainer. She was hot. He loved to be seen with his hot trainer. She didn't love to be seen with him. He thought he had a chance with her. He didn't. He had his teeth bleached. Twice. NASA could have guided the space shuttle back to earth with those teeth. White would have been an understatement. His confidence grew like a weed. He gave up booze, salt, sugar, fat, and cigs. And anything wrapped in plastic. Except of course, the get-big-and-lean-in-no-time sachets of "miracle powder" kindly supplied by the aforementioned Uber trainer at the "wholesale price". She made fun of him behind his back. He asked her out fifty times. She declined fifty times. He didn't care. He had a new attitude. Nothing would get him down. He trained like an elite athlete. His trainer's bank balance grew as his ample gut disappeared. And while the body fat melted and the muscles grew, he enrolled himself in a real estate course. He was driven, focused and passionate and he was about to hit pay dirt.Property was going to be his ticket.Within twelve months, boy wonder had become a qualified real estate agent (realtor), had begun working in the industry, had traded his nine-year-old Ford for a new BMW and was about to buy his first investment property. Not long after, the organisation he worked for acknowledged his drive and value to the company, and promoted him. He lived his job. He ate, slept and breathed his career. They promoted him again. He had no social life or fun. But he knew the fun would come later. It could wait. "People don't understand sacrifice," he would tell himself. All he did was work, exercise obsessively and eat over-priced organic food: brown bananas, spotty apples, and chewy, half-cooked rice.Friends and family had to "take a back seat for a while". And for the most part, he found his family to be something of an emotional drain. Within three years he was a partner in the company. Unheard of. He had set a record. The BMW had made way for a Porsche and his personal portfolio had grown to eleven properties and significant investments in blue-chip stocks.He was making some serious cash. Just what he always wanted. He was on a roll. He was indeed walking the talk. Some people thought he was obnoxious, arrogant and one-dimensional. He thought they were losers who were trying to get in his way.His body fat was seven percent, his teeth were whiter than ever, his confidence was at an all-time high, he was waxed within an inch of his life, he had his own personal assistant -- and best of all, his gorgeous trainer had realised that she did love him after all. Swell. Who'da thunk it??Just before his thirty-sixth birthday he set up his own real estate company.Within two years he had branches all over the country, couldn't remember how many properties he personally owned, had more luxury cars than he could ever drive and had been featured in Success magazine. He did TV and radio interviews. He bought a forty thousand dollar watch. And he bought more and more stuff.Finally, he was living the dream. Even his assistant had an assistant. His amazing metamorphosis had brought with it a whole new group of friends. He was so much more popular now. People noticed him, knew him, wanted to hang out with him. He didn't speak to his old friends any more. Or his family much. Apparently they were pretty jealous and had really changed.They didn't really "understand" him."Oh well."Two days after his forty-first birthday and eleven years after his first personal development workshop, our super-achiever sold his business to a large international company for hundreds of millions of dollars. He was richer than rich. He would never have to work again. Ever.Even though he hadn't spoken to his family for two years, he thought they might ring to congratulate him when they heard the news. They didn't. "Typical," he thought.He was mad at them for being so dysfunctional and resentful. He vowed to never to speak to them again. "Don't need that anchor around my neck anyway."Two months later he bought his own island. It wasn't Australia or anything, but as islands go, it was nice. He built his dream house -- a mansion overlooking the ocean, complete with gym, theatre and a walk-in wardrobe as big as his parents' house. He had his own airstrip, a helipad and of course enough toys to keep him happy and occupied forever.He and the trainer (who was now his wife) fought a lot but he had learned to pacify her with some regular retail therapy. "Give her the credit card, send her out the door and I get some peace and quiet," he would tell his rich buddies.And while she was happily spending his money, he and his assistant would indulge in a little therapy of their own. Yep, he had it all figured out. "Best of both worlds."Sometimes he marveled at how smart he was. Even though his best friend in the world, an old school buddy, had stopped talking to him. "Better off anyway. We were socially disconnected; no common ground.""We're in different places now; I've grown, he hasn't," he would try and convince himself.One evening after enduring World War Three (thousand) with Mrs Super-Achiever, our hero went outside to sit on his massive balcony in his very expensive chair and look at his very expensive view on his very expensive private island. He collected his thoughts and looked down to admire his waxed, muscular arms in the light of a brilliant full moon. The veins he had once longed for were now permanently on display just below the skin of his lean, athletic body.His teeth were now so white, they were almost fluorescent. He rested his protein shake on his rock-hard abs and stared at the waves. It was the most beautiful view in the world -- but it may as well have been a black hole. For a man with everything, he felt distinctly poor.And alone. And foolish.For the first time in years he was completely honest with himself.A lone tear rolled down his cheek. And he let himself feel. Really feel. No distractions, no noise, no ego. And finally, no bullshit.For over a decade he had lived "in his head." And for the first time in an eternity, he listened to what his heart had to say. That single tear turned into a torrent. He felt pain like never before.Instantly he had a heightened sense of awareness through every cell of his body. It hurt to breathe. The tears were liberating. Slowly the pain turned into joy as he began to really understand success for the first time. All of a sudden wealth had nothing to do with money. He walked inside and calmly picked up the phone."Dad, it's me..."

Beware the Dream Squasher

Craig Harper — Wed, 22 Aug 2007 09:36:14 EDT

Sat down to eat my lunch yesterday, turned on the TV to take a little time out and there was a re-run of Everybody Loves Raymond on. Perfect. Couldn't have planned it better. Food, couch and Raymond -- nirvana.Such simple creatures, us men. So easy to please. But maybe that's just me. I love that show -- even the re-runs. Very well written. Clever. Anyway, Deborah (Ray's wife) had decided that she wanted to re-enter the work force after an extended period of time raising kids and managing the home. She was very excited. Predictably, this notion was met with underwhelming support by the socially inappropriate, selfish, and emotionally challenged Ray and his mother (Marie).Ray felt that his wife shouldn't "need" to work and should have all her needs met by being a mother and a wife; somehow he found a way to bring the situation back to himself and his needs. As he always does. Fancy a man doing that? Strange.Anyway, the more Ray and Marie tried to simulate happiness and enthusiasm (for Deborah's job-hunting endeavors), the more it was apparent that they didn't want her to re-ignite her career at all; they wanted her to fail. Deborah was hurt by their lack of support. She labeled them both "dream squashers."I loved it when that term came out of her mouth because it so accurately and succinctly describes so many people that I've met over my journey. You've met a bunch of them too; they're everywhere. If you try (even a little bit), you can picture at least one or two of them. Right?They are a first cousin of the Energy Vampire. You may even be related to one. Closely perhaps. They feel compelled to tell you why you can't or won't achieve your goals and dreams. Or why you're silly to try. Or why now is not the right time. Or how it's not safe and why. "I'm telling you this for your own good."Or how they tried something similar, and it's just not worth it. Or how chasing your dreams doesn't pay the bills. Dream Squashers work under numerous pseudonyms; here are a few of the common ones:1. The voice of reason.2. A concerned friend.3. An "expert".4. Dad.5. Mum.Now, before I receive any abusive comments, let me clarify one thing -- Dream Squashers are not to be confused with the people in your life who are genuinely trying to protect your best interests; there is much great advice to be taken (graciously) from friends and family. But sometimes they are one and the same. They don't mean to be, or want to be -- but sometimes they are Dream Squashers. Here are some tips for dealing with the Dream Squashers who might come into your world:1. Realise that they don't understand dreams. Your dreams anyway. They don't need to; only you do. Don't try and persuade, convert them or convince them.2. Be direct with them. "If I want your feedback, advice or input, I'll let you know, thanks." Don't let other people tell you what your dreams, goals or standards should be. Many will try.3. Be selective about who you share your dreams with.4. If you want your dream to become a reality, it needs to be attached to a practical action plan. Dreaming is great but not enough (of itself) to create results.5. Avoid the career Dream Squasher at all costs -- they exist. They delight in bringing others down and strategically and viciously raining on your parade. They are typically sarcastic, condescending, critical, arrogant and self-righteous. They resent the success of others (I think I've met most of them). Usually they are miserable and have achieved nothing (much) themselves. Other than that, they're great. 6. Don't be precious; there will always be critics, 'experts' and Dream Squashers. Toughen up. Don't expect universal support. Enjoy it when it's there.. but don't expect it. If you crumble every time you encounter resistance, your therapist will be rich and you'll be frustrated. And poor. Successful people are resilient. Use the resistance to make you stronger and to develop those much-needed skills. 7. Succeed. Apart from the sense of satisfaction, the joy, the fun and personal growth you'll experience, it will annoy the crap out of the Dream Squashers.And ya gotta love that.

Sitting at Life's Train Station

Craig Harper — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 07:40:21 EDT

It's 5:15 in the morning. You wake up excited with a day of new and amazing possibilities ahead of you. You bounce out of bed and hit the floor running. You jump in the shower, throw down some toast and head out the front door. Knowing that today is the day.Your heart is racing with anticipation and your mind is cartwheeling through a smorgasbord of possibilities. You get to the train station at ten to six. You walk to the platform and you take your seat. You're very excited.You're excited because there are so many trains going to so many places and you have so many options. So many choices. And you're most excited because you've been given a magic ticket. A ticket which will take you wherever you want. Literally.Any place in the world. Wherever you choose. Doesn't make sense, but it doesn't really need to -- it's magic. Not logic. Your magic ticket will take you to the place of your dreams. All you've got to do is choose your destination, leave your comfy seat and get on the train of your choice.And enjoy. Simple enough.As you sit there waiting, you become acutely aware of your heart beating strongly inside your ribs. Pounding even. Pounding with anticipation of what the day will bring. What might be. What will be. Where the ride might take you. So lucky to be given a magic ticket to anywhere. It's a cold morning but you're not. Cold that is. You figure that excitement must produce heat. Perhaps.You look down at your watch and it's six thirty. To your surprise, forty minutes have come and gone and so have eleven trains.They were going to some really cool places but you figure, "That's okay, there will be heaps more.""I've got all day," you tell yourself. "I don't want to be hasty.""What if I got on the first train and then one with a better destination pulled into the station?""I gotta be careful.""Gotta protect my magic ticket... only got one. Don't wanna waste it. How stupid would that be?""A magic ticket to anywhere... all I've got to do is make a decision and get on the train of my choice... too easy."A train rolls into the station. It's going to Germany."Hmm... Germany would be nice -- great food, beautiful scenery -- but maybe the language barrier might be an issue; yeah, that could make it tricky. I'll give Germany a miss."You stay in your seat. You lean forward and peer down the tracks, excited to see which train might roll in next. So many opportunities, so many amazing destinations. And you're determined to wait for just the right one.You'll know it when you see it. You don't want to be too impulsive. You know plenty of people who have blown it, because they didn't think things through.But you... you're a thinker. Yep, you'll wait. And wait. You're like that.Another train rolls into the station, the doors fly open and happy, excited people pile in. Kids with big smiles abound. You look at the sign on the front; it's going to Disneyland."Disneyland! I've always wanted to go to Disneyland." You can't believe your luck. You get up off your seat and you move towards the door of the train. Your heart is beating faster than ever, the eight-year-old inside you is squealing with delight and the hairs on the back of your neck have jumped to attention.Yep, this is what it's all about. You're three steps from the train when your power-stride turns into an amble. A hesitant amble.People behind you begin to get grumpy and start bumping into each other. "What are you waiting for?" they reasonably ask."Err... I... aah..." you reply pathetically.You don't know what you're waiting for. After all, the train to Disneyland is only feet away. It dawns on you that perhaps you might be making the wrong choice."What if there's no healthy food there? After all, I'm watching my weight," you tell yourself."And what if I hurt my back again on one of the rides? It's only just started to feel better since my last treatment." Sensibly, you move back to your seat. You're nothing, if not sensible. Anyway, you're not a kid any more; you'd probably look out of place at Disneyland."Yeah, what was I thinking?"You return to your seat and while your heart is momentarily heavy, you do your best to convince yourself that you've made the right decision. You're almost sure you have. Although the eight-year-old in you thinks you're a boring, predictable, fearful old fart."Too many people don't think big picture; I'm a big picture kinda person," you tell yourself.Some more trains come and go:Hawaii: "The sun's no good for my fair skin."Africa: "I read somewhere that hippos kill more people than any other animal?"Australia: "I might bump into Craig Harper; he makes me feel self-conscious and he's very rude."Canada: "Too cold -- and they speak weird."Train after train come and go. Opportunity after opportunity; none of them suitable."Don't wanna waste my ticket," you keep telling yourself. You look at your watch. It's nearly 6:00 pm. It can't be! You feel physically ill.You ask the man next to you for the time and he says, "Two minutes before six."You can feel the blood drain from your face. All of a sudden you have an awareness of the cold. In fact, you're freezing. And miserable. Your fingers hurt. And your toes. Everything hurts. Even your heart. The excitement has been replaced with an overwhelming sense of grief. And panic. Desperation even."It can't be six o'clock! I just sat down here," you try and convince yourself. "I can't have wasted that opportunity...""Can I?"You look down at your hand and the magic ticket is gone.

Time Efficient Personal Development

Craig Harper — Fri, 17 Aug 2007 07:51:57 EDT

We all know that I have a propensity to be somewhat straightforward. Blunt perhaps. Politically incorrect. Periodically rude (according to some). An unfair assessment I say but...Oh well. I'll cope. Sometimes straightforward is exactly what's needed. Less fluff. Less talking in circles. Less vague... more specific. Less mystery. More honesty. There's a concept.We can dance around it -- or we can call it as it is."Err, yes Mrs Smith... well... the test results are back and surprisingly, your child is not big-boned -- he actually comes under the clinical classification of... really fat! Huge, even.""Mrs Smith... Mrs Smith... where are you going?""And by the way, no, it's not puppy fat; we checked. It's person fat.""Mrs Smith, don't throw that table! You'll dislocate something..."So last night I had to speak at a fundraising dinner. Hundreds of people, big auditorium, six speakers(!), me, the last on stage and a whole twelve minutes to speak. Can you imagine me speaking for twelve minutes? I've never done a twelve-minute presentation in my life. It takes me longer than that to order my lunch. Most of my presentations and workshops last for somewhere between one and eight hours.As I was driving to the venue, I was wondering how the hell I could have any significant (lasting) impact on a group of people, talking for such a short period of time, and as I'm all about being a catalyst for change and making a difference, I thought I may have to skip a few of the normal, feel-good preliminaries. Okay, all of them. Might have to jump straight into the good stuff and see what happens. So I took to the stage for my twelve minutes of power.It was the end of the night (a week night obviously), people were tired, it was late, they had already heard five other speakers and endured one of those fabulous charity auctions, and it's fair to say that they probably weren't on the edge of their seats with excitement as the ex-fat kid strode to the podium. I was the only speaker with no notes, no Powerpoint presentation, no impressive visual aids, no handouts -- no anything.Just twelve minutes of me. Giddy-up.For seven hundred and twenty seconds I told everyone in the room exactly why we're such a fat, unhealthy, disorganised, dissatisfied collective of people. I took two breaths for the whole presentation. I was like Jacques Costeau without the flippers.I spoke about the psychology of getting in shape (and staying that way); specifically about procrastination, attitude, blame, excuses, avoidance, personal responsibility, honesty and decision making -- not a bad effort for twelve minutes. And I didn't hold back.As this strategic (but entertaining) tirade was coming out of my mouth, I scanned the room. I saw a mixture of laughter, fear, confusion, interest, amusement and revelation. Nice mix. While some of them probably hated my guts, the majority of the feedback I received was overwhelmingly positive. Nice. Surprising even.So I guess I learned three key things:1. I don't need to talk for so long.2. I need to be a lot more offensive; clearly I'm too polite.3. If you make people laugh, you can smash 'em over the head with some brutal truth while they're catching their breath.Okay, I'm off to work on my new highly-offensive, five-minute, life-changing workshop. Time-efficient personal development at its best.I wonder how much I could charge for that?