Today is a momentus day in my life. You wanna know why? Because today is the day I decided to take a stand. Today is the day I decided to look out for number one.
For those who know me, it might seem hard to believe that I've never achieved complete career satisfaction. Sure I've tried. I've pretended to be interested and engaged. But the reality is I've never once taken the advice of many very super-smart, super-successful people. They tell me, "do what you love." And, I've ignored this advice like a man ignore's his wife. This has always held me back.
As a salesperson, I've spent the most valuable hours of my week doing things I don't love. Like calling people who don't want to talk to me. Or, meeting with people who don't want to meet with me. Driving to and from places that didn't even pay for the gas I was using. Wasting time. Wasting my life.
And what is it that I love to do? Eat. I absolutely love to eat. Mass consumption is my specialty.
Secondly, I love to watch people eat. Give me a "Man Versus Food" marathon on the Travel Channel and I'm one freakin' happy fat boy.
So, here's the big announcement. It's the perfect melding of my two true loves. I've decided to dedicate my life to competitive eating and will open the nation's first training center for these underappreciated and overfed athletes. Granted, this is all still in the planning stages and could fall apart if the financial backing fails to come through, or if I lose interest. Actually, the losing interest issue is the greater of the two threats. Losing interest in things is another of my downfalls. It started with the pet newt I had - that I killed - when I was ten, and I've been in my own personal battle with the disease ever since. Losing interest is hereditary. My father became a model airplane hobbyist during my youth. He successfully started to build four separate gas-powered model airplanes during that phase in his life. Not a single one ever made it to the runway. The last two (one yellow and one red) still sit in my parents' basement, caked with dust from thirty-five or so years of waiting to be completed.
But today I stand here before you to proclaim that there will be no dust on this dream.
My school will be known as "Eat U." I will provide an outlet for the large-appetited -- a much-needed platform for these gastric marvels. Our motto: "Education and Motivation without Regurgitation."
I'll need to tie in with a local caterer to provide professional training materials -- things like hot dogs, pizza, apple pie, steak, buffalo wings, meatballs and mountain oysters to name a few. With the volume of crap food we'll need for our classes, maybe I should bring the catering in-house.
Just a gut feeling, but I don't think that finding students will be a problem. However, tracking down instructors might be. I mean, how many Kobiyashis and Joey Chestnuts are there out there? I might have to revert to second tier and lesser-knowns like Eric "The Red" Denmark, Crazylegs Conti and female sensation Sonya Thomas.
To fill the gap, I'd take myself away from some of my administrative duties, suit up and teach. I myself have never been a competitive eater, though I've managed to set personal standards for pierogies (24), olives (green and black 255) and pizza (half sheet) in single sittings. Never used a clock. In that respect, I'm self-taught. But, where is it mandated that coaches ever needed to have played the game professionally? Just ask Vince Lombardi or Paul Brown in football. Or Earl Weaver and Jim Leyland in baseball. Actually, only Leyland will answer because he's the only one still able to convert oxygen to carbon dioxide. Getting your answers from the others will require a Ouji board. But I can assure you that the dead group of coaches would agree that it's not mandatory to learn the finer points of eating 100 kosher dill pickles in three minutes from someone who actually did it himself.
I really have this all figured out. It's a great idea. I'm sure it would work. Only problem is that I have no idea how to get started. And, it seems like too much trouble to figure it out. Waaaayy too much trouble.
Oh well, you know what they say. Like father, like son.