A few years ago, I thought I’d made it.
I thought I’d finally figured out this whole ‘income thing’.
I was asked to host a television show.
It seemed like the perfect fit.
It could have been.
But,
I worked with a man with an incredibly small penis.
He didn’t have any ability to see what I could bring, or what I knew how to do or even how to collaborate.
He was really really great at being able to tear me down, have me doubt my ability and question whether or not I brought any value to the table.
I hope he gets really bad ass herpes that slowly cause him to bleed to death.
Seriously.
I fucking hate the dude.
I was good. But working with someone who couldn’t see my strengths sapped my soul and made me question everything about myself
It’s ok though.
Now I’m OUTSTANDING at my job.
I’ve come in to this new profession of hosting people on walking tours of our city and I feel like rookie of the year.
People are noticing.
A colleague of mine commented on how I must have done this before because there was no way to get this good this quickly.
But dear reader,
I am good.
In fact?
I’m pretty outstanding.
And ya know what?
After being good at something else and being told constantly that I wasn’t, I have no room in my heart for being falsely modest.
It feels fucking great to not only be good at something, but to be recognized as good and kinda know it deep down in my bones.
I mean, I’m a really fucking talented storyteller and tour guide. I’m great on a mic and people feel seen by me and we connect beautifully.
After years of self doubt and wondering what the hell to do with my life, there’s something liberating about knowing that I’m a great host.
I get a bit weepy even at the thought of it.
People tip tour guides and the drivers of the buses who work with multiple guides look at me slack jawed when we count our tips at the end of the day.
This is insane. You’ve only been doing this for a month?
It is inconceivable to me.
I spend a lot of time walking around the house telling Laura I’m pretty ok at this. People like me.
It’s like I’m attempting to convince myself that this is actually true, like if I don’t remind myself of this someone is going to kick me in the nuts, steal my bike and send me out onto the street.
The don’t have a ‘rookie of the year’ for tour guides.
But if there was one?
I’d fucking win it.
By a country mile.
There’s a downside though.
This is seasonal work. I only have 16 sifts left in the season.
After that?
I’m likely going to work as a delivery driver until next season.
It‘ll be soul sucking work.
And?
That’s ok.
I’m going to keep writing.
But even better?
I know I’ll have 50 to 60 days of one to two audiences per day - just over a hundred shows per year.
And though I’m feeling a bit of a pang in my heart that the season is winding down.
Right?
I’ve just discovered something that I love and I’m really fucking good at it but now I have to put that away for six months.
My career has become a long distance love affair.
It’s painful to watch it disappear for the winter.
Some say that distance makes the heart grow fonder.
But those motherfuckers?
Fuck those guys.
They were dicks.