I’m sitting in a hypnotist’s office because I am a fat load. There’s no other way to put it. I’ve been “stocky” or “husky” since elementary school. But my most recent weight gain—brought on by a suburban lifestyle, a dead thyroid, a desk job, and a fatty parade of cookie tins brought to my house—has called for drastic measures.

My hypnotist’s voice has already turned, well, hypnotic. Our first meeting, referred to in the hypnosis literature as the “hypnotizability susceptibility assessment,” is where hypnotists size up their clients to gauge levels of skepticism.

He is not a doctor. He does not dangle a pocket watch in front of me. He is what is known in the trade as a “lay hypnotist.” I found—let’s call him Gary—by Googling “hypnotism” and my hometown, “Albany, NY.” His business card bears a sentiment along the lines of “hypnotism really works.” The letters after his name are “CH,” for “certified hypnotist.” According to Dwight F. Damon, president of the National Guild of Hypnotists, there are somewhere between 8,000 and 9,000 dues-paying certified hypnotists in his organization in the United States, and 12,000 worldwide in 72 countries. Hypnotism is routinely covered by HMOs; for my stand-alone hypnotism treatment, however, I pay $160 out-of-pocket for an initial visit, or a package of $295 for a three-session course of treatment.

Gary’s office looks like any real doctor’s: a pair of comfortable chairs, desk, bentwood chair, pastel art prints. There’s a boombox from which he will play Sigur Rós-like hypnotic pulse music, and a couple of board games—The Ungame (Couples Version), Battleship, Boggle. I express admiration of the huge leather recliner, which wouldn’t be out of place in the man cave of my stepfather’s dreams.

“You won’t get to use the big chair today,” he says, and smiles.

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