This week, I’ve been trying to figure out what I’ll be when I grow up. I had high hopes that the Easter Bunny was going to leave me a big ole sign about my future in the basket with oodles of Cadbury Mini Eggs. Instead, that stingy rabbit only left 2 mini bags of mini eggs. Luckily, no one filmed my reaction to THAT and sent it to Jimmy Kimmel, cause I’d make these kids look like reasonable adults:
So, here’s the thing– I like writing blogs, they’re alot of fun. Sort of stream of consciousness and I don’t care if I have followers or not. But, writing BOOKS is a whole lot of actual work. Granted, it’s work I can do at home in my pajamas, but it’s work, nonetheless. And after two decades of indoctrination, my Pavlovian response to working is to check the bank account two weeks later for the deposit. WORK = REWARD.
Now some people write for the love of telling the story, or for therapy, or because that’s what they’ve always wanted to do and those are certainly rewarding and compelling reasons…FOR THEM. But, I can’t quite convince myself that subjecting my career and our family’s financial future to the whims of the American public (Kardashians & Swamp People, anyone?) is even in the vicinity of a good idea.
However, I’ve gotten used to working in my shorts and t-shirts, so unless I want to move to some hippy state where that sort of dress is more acceptable, then my options are limited. And, I really want to be off in the summers with my kids, and have a week of vacation at Thanksgiving and Easter and 3 more weeks for Christmas. Finally, I need to make lots of money upfront so that after Uncle Sam gets his cut, I have some left over.
So, the Dream Job is on my list for Santa Claus. Let’s hope the large man in the red suit can deliver– I’m getting too old to keep starting over.