Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Are the two of them happy together? Not really. But I also don’t think she wants to leave him. If she did, though… I mean, could she, with no income of her own?
The thought of being trapped like that keeps me up at night.
Which is why I initially wanted a job in private equity, even though I’m a creative at heart. I majored in visual arts and marketing in undergrad, and I even started my own brand and website business, the Creative Cactus, a few years ago. I took on a handful of pretty cool clients each semester. The work is fun, and the money is good. Good enough to cover rent at least.
Randolph chuckled earlier today when I brought up my business. “The website design thing.” He flapped his hand in a vague gesture that made me search for a rogue fly or gnat. “I remember that from your résumé. I mean, that’s not an actual job, but it’s cute.”
I kept my smile pasted on my face, doing my best to absorb the blow without even blinking.
My parents haven’t put it that bluntly, but they’d agree with Randolph’s assessment of the Creative Cactus. Dad’s worked for the same wealth management company his entire career, and his job comes with great benefits: health insurance, matching 401(k) contributions, and stock options. Not to mention a steady paycheck. He and Mom believe a job isn’t a real job unless it comes with perks like those, ones that lead to a stable lifestyle.
Which I understand. I want a nice life for myself too. I’ve been trying to get a “real” job for months now. But the guy who was supposed to hire me today only saw me as a piece of ass. Is that just how corporate America works, though? Was Mom right? Am I naive to expect otherwise?
I sometimes wonder what would happen if I made the Creative Cactus my full-time gig. Yeah, I don’t get any stock options, and health insurance is something I’d have to figure out on my own. But the income from my business has been stable so long as I’m consistently taking on projects. I’ve been lucky; word-of-mouth recommendations mean that I typically have a healthy waiting list of clients.
But that might not always be the case. Everyone’s always told me that creative lines of work like mine are inherently unstable, and I guess I’ve internalized the message that it’s impossible to make a real living in a field like brand creation and management.
Besides, do I really want to work by myself for the foreseeable future? I make decent money but not nearly enough to hire help. I’d have to do everything myself—accounting, networking, social media. Plus my own marketing if the pipeline of potential clients runs dry.
What about my lifestyle if I chose that path? Could I even get approved to extend my apartment lease if I’m self-employed? The current lease is up January 1. My parents cosigned my current lease, and even though I pay the rent myself, I don’t want to have to depend on them at all going forward.
It goes without saying that I’d rather die than move back home. No offense to my family, whom I love dearly. But I flew the nest, and I have no plans to come back for…obvious reasons.
I’m proud of Creative Cactus. But I’m just not convinced I could turn it into the kind of stable, exciting, lucrative career I’ve always wanted.
I’m not convinced it could provide the kind of freedom I’m looking for. Freedom my mom doesn’t have.
I do want a family someday. But a husband, kids…that stuff will come later, after I’ve figured out my career and saved up a nice little nest egg. I’m only twenty-four, for crying out loud. Like the majority of my business school classmates, I don’t plan on settling down until I’m well into my thirties.
There’s no rush to find “the one.” Although it would be nice to get laid every once in a while by someone who knows how it’s done.
Once the meatballs are cooked, the water starts to boil. I add a tablespoon of kosher salt to the pot, then pour in the pasta. I give that a stir while Mom sets the table.
Dad is still pouting, but he does join us when we all sit down to eat. Mom keeps her eyes on her plate while Dad pushes the food around on his, letting out an annoyed huff after he takes a bite of the offending meatballs.
They are freaking delicious, and I say so. My brothers agree, but my dad remains silent.
Less than ten minutes after we sat down to eat, Dad is getting up and putting his plate in the sink. Then he heads back to the couch. My brothers are not far behind. They do have the grace to thank Mom for cooking, even as they immediately start to moan and groan about how tired they are from the week.