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chanticoWe all have stupid little boundaries that we make up in our heads. Things that we’ll do or years we’ll hit, places we’ll live, that we give mythical powers of transformation: when we past these goalposts, something about us will, fundamentally, be different. Then of course the goalposts keep up and moving on their own. We get to the place we thought it was and suddenly, nope, give yourself another few years because we don’t feel it yet. And then sometimes you just pass them without realizing you were even approaching.
Fabulous news! I have a new connection. I’m now a freelancer for authorSolutions Children's Book department. Regular projects at pro rates. It won’t pay all my bills, but it would pay my rent. There’s a contract and I have invoices and. AND. I submitted a W9 so that they could report my taxes.
Boom. Goalpost. The moment I lifted my finger from the send button turning that little piece of digital paper in, I new it.
Guys. I’m a PROFESSIONAL now. My taxes are being reported to the government. His has entered the realm of real career now. It wasn’t the money, or the connections, or the technical skill—nope. It was the damn taxes.
How many of those moments have I had in my life? And have I *ever* been right when I anticipate when those changes will take place? I don’t think so. I thought I’d feel like an adult when I got my own place, but it wasn’t until I could serve a serve a full meal on a nicely set table that the ticker dinged. I didn’t feel like I’d ever get married until my dead grandmother visited my dreams and told me in no uncertain terms that J was the one.
Maybe this whole “You’ll only (BLANK) when you (BLANK)” thing is for the birds.
Fabulous news! I have a new connection. I’m now a freelancer for authorSolutions Children's Book department. Regular projects at pro rates. It won’t pay all my bills, but it would pay my rent. There’s a contract and I have invoices and. AND. I submitted a W9 so that they could report my taxes.
Boom. Goalpost. The moment I lifted my finger from the send button turning that little piece of digital paper in, I new it.
Guys. I’m a PROFESSIONAL now. My taxes are being reported to the government. His has entered the realm of real career now. It wasn’t the money, or the connections, or the technical skill—nope. It was the damn taxes.
How many of those moments have I had in my life? And have I *ever* been right when I anticipate when those changes will take place? I don’t think so. I thought I’d feel like an adult when I got my own place, but it wasn’t until I could serve a serve a full meal on a nicely set table that the ticker dinged. I didn’t feel like I’d ever get married until my dead grandmother visited my dreams and told me in no uncertain terms that J was the one.
Maybe this whole “You’ll only (BLANK) when you (BLANK)” thing is for the birds.
