The Scene: The United States of America.
9:57 am: Walk into L.A. Fitness.
9:58: Meet stunningly fit individual named Alberto.
10:00: Decide there is some fucked up pheromones wandering around body that insist on me + Latino men.
10:01: Wonder if Alberto's name really is Alberto. Consider how unsexy it would be to call him Al.
10:02: Make mental note to call him Al in an attempt to become less attracted to him.
10:03: Wonder if he's related to Vin Diesel.
10:04: Wonder about Vin Diesel's ethnicity.
10:05: Wonder if I'd ever have a chance with Vin Diesel.
10:06: Decide that I would have a chance if I'd just get my fat ass on the elliptical instead of procrastinating by the water fountain.
10:10: Al tries to sell me personal training services. I'm tempted, understanding that this will mean bodily contact. I'll take what I can get.
10:11: Al talks a mile a minute and I have no idea what he says at all.
10:12: Al keeps talking way too fast and makes me feel incredibly sold to.
10:13: Think about how true it is that people like to buy, but hate to be sold to. How about *that* for your next tattoo, Casanova?
10:14: Rip pen out of Al's hand and rewrite the information over again so I am ACTUALLY ABLE TO READ IT. If I can't understand it, I can't possibly want to buy it.
10:15: Al must sense my thought process and asks if I think he's a good salesman. I tell him he is not. I do add, however, that he might be if anyone could understand what the fuck he was saying.
10:16: Al blames fast talking on being Dominican.
10:17: Still attracted to Al, regardless of poor sales tactics. Decide I am going to stop calling him Al, and start calling him, “El Dominicano.”
10:20: Weighs me (FML), reads my body fat (FML), and then all hell breaks loose: El Dominicano asks if I'd like to go bowling that night.
10:21: Walk away screaming inside brain, “HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT.” Mostly because dude definitely knows I'm in the “above” fat percentage zone and yet I still manage to mack him. Quite pleased.
10:22: Realize I have no fucking idea what people wear bowling.
10:23: Realize I will likely be forced into wearing those hideous multi-colored, 1970's style bowling shoes.
10:24: Decide my ass must look amazing to compensate.
12 pm: Proceed to mall to purchase new pants, given that I have none since my latest international move.
Fast forward to 9 pm that night.
9:00: Strut into bowling alley wearing said new pants.
9:01: El Dominicano leans in and whispers in ear: “Want to know how I know you're a classy chick, Ashley?” Looks at me with smirk. Leans back in to whisper a second time. “Because you go out and buy new pants before your dates.” Proceeds to bend down and rip off humongous sticker with pants size running down the back of my thigh.
9:02: Mortified! Mortified! Mortified!
9:02: Motion with my finger for him to get close. Whisper back to him, “Want to know how I know you're a terrible salesperson, Alberto?” Look at him with smirk. “Because if you weren't, you'd know the *reason* I'm wearing new pants.”
9:03: Turn around and throw strike.
Okay, so the strike never happened.
But the rest did. My point to Vin-berto was that when he had me at his desk, talking a million miles a minute, going through what was obviously a routine sales pitch, that I couldn't even understand…not once did he stop and ask me about me. About my goals. About why I was there. About what I hoped to accomplish. About why the fuck I'd ever consider opening my wallet and giving him $300 a month to train me. Or the fact that I had just come from Chile and didn't have any pants.
Instead, it was all about him him him and what he he he can do do do.
When I resisted, his immediate response was to reassure me that I could trust him, that if I give him the opportunity he won't let me down–foolishly assuming my resistance was the result in a lack of trust in his abilities, when in reality, it had nothing to do with him. I was really assessing if what I needed to accomplish (emphasis on the I) would require a $300 a month investment. Not whether or not I thought he could do it.
So not only did he talk about himself the whole time, but then he began overcoming the wrong objections–objections that I didn't even have.
Later at the bowling alley, we actually started talking shop. Talking sales. (Because that's apparently what I talk about on dates, ahem.) He mentioned that they teach all of their trainers that they aren't there to sell personal training–they're there to sell sex appeal.
I agreed, but with one caveat.
They aren't selling me theirs.
They're selling me mine.
There's a difference.
And in order to sell me mine, you've got to know what I think is sexy–not just from a physical standpoint, but in terms of other aspects as well–so you can position your services accordingly.
And you can't do that if you spend 95% talking at me, instead of with me.
Fast forward to later that evening:
2:00 am: Drops me off. (Foolishly) asks if he can come up to see new place.
2:01: Remind him that I'm a classy chick, as he so kindly pointed out earlier that evening.
2:03: Vin-berto leaves very disappointed.
2:04: Wonder if Vin Diesel would be smoother.
2:05: Decide he definitely would be.
2:06: Stay up for next 30 minutes stalking Vin Diesel online.
Yes, that's really how the story ends.
Though I suppose, not really, because I have two very important things to tell you:
1. If you want to know step-by-step how you can pull 6 figures this year with your biz, keep your eyes peeled for Wednesday.
2. If you're looking to rev up your brand this year, and were hoping to really nail down your message + get HEARD – SEEN – TALKED ABOUT – SOUGHT AFTER while keepin' your cool, keep your eyes peeled for Friday. Friday's going to be fucking magical. And there's going to be a lot of one night stands happening. That's all I'm sayin'. Interpret it as you wish.–
XO and all of that happy horseshit,