I recently discovered a "little wisdom" from an unexpected source: the English romantic comedy Run, Fatboy, Run from 2007.
If you’re anything like me, right now you’re thinking, "Ugh, a romantic comedy." If you’re anything like my husband, right now you’re thinking, "Ugh, a foreign movie."
I’m not a fan of romantic comedies, foreign or domestic, but the trailer for this one made me laugh. Then, in two swift steps, it was added to my Netflix queue and bumped up to the top position.
At the center of Run, Fatboy, Run is Dennis, a loser who decides to "get his girl back" by running a marathon. Dennis’ friends and enemies, including his landlord Mr. Goshdashtidar, encourage and discourage him in various ways. They bet for him and against him, buy him running shoes and evict him from his apartment, beat him up for quitting and give him a place to stay the night before the race.
Mr. Goshdashtidar is the most direct of Dennis’ frenemies. He rides a moped along next to Dennis; exhorts, "Run, fatboy, run!" and then swats his ass with a long metal spatula.
The very first time Mr. G. said those three little words and swung that culinary tool, I smirked and thought, "Yeah, tell it like it is."
I sometimes (read: often) get tired of evasion and euphemisms, of saccharine sentimentality and round about explanations. Why can’t we just say what we mean, get directly to the point, and speak with a purpose? We don’t always need a pat on the back and a sympathetic, "Oh, you poor thing," when what our friends are really thinking is, "Well, what’d you expect?" or "You set yourself up for that." Sometimes a swat on the ass and a gruff, "Run, fatboy, run!" are appropriate, helpful, even well deserved.
I’m not a boy, but I do need motivation for many, many things. Lately, I’ve found it a bit easier to do what I don’t want to do. I just let those three words and that metallic smack run through my mind. And then I get my ass in gear to do what needs to be done.
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