I left the chuch feeling like my own little mini disaster. Dropped some balls. Through some cracks. Inadvertently caused some unnecessary stress and annoyance. Even though I really HAD done a pretty good job, all things considered. Stood at the bottom of the dark sewer hole under that grate that I dropped the balls through and wished I could just make everything perfect always. Stupid Pollyanna me.
On the way from the church to the realty for my afternoon phone duty hours, my cell phone rang. It was my broker. He asked for my resignation. Because, basically, I suck. Oh wait! It's not ME that sucks exactly, it's THE ECONOMY, stupid!
Regardless, I was asked to leave. I still can't see how it would cost them anything except photo copies and a few cups of coffee for me to keep trying but apparently my "desk space" was more valuable to them than the space at that empty desk next to mine. Cleaning my desk out was a pretty dark valley.
I can't help but take it a little personally that my dedication was not respected considering that I'm the only one of last year's crop of real esteate newbies (who didn't become a star realtor's assistant) that's still there regularly. All the others had to take other jobs. I did too, but I still managed to be there regularly. I made a conscious decision early on that I was going to be the one to stick it out. I planned to work there for the next 20 years.
Eventually, I would have gotten my feet on the ground and all the dues I've paid would have started to pay off. And all the real CASH dues I've paid would have ended up bringing returns on the investment. Many of the clients I've worked with at length over the past 18 months has told me that I'm the best realtor they've ever worked with. I'm proud to have given them the personal attention that made them feel that way.
I worked hard. I was positive. I was pleasant. I was willing. I did everything I knew to do. I went to all the meetings and tours. I stayed up on the new listings. Most mornings I was the first person in the office. I even restocked the toilet paper and refilled the creamer and sugar containers by the coffee pot. I took as much phone duty as I could get. I did open houses for other agents anytime I could. I even brought a $600,000 listing. Several times I had clients find "their" house and make offers. Only to have the deals fall through. ALL the deals.
I will admit it. I have had the kiss of death in real estate. I even had the sale of a property that I own personally go down in a blaze of crash-and-burn flaming glory. Everything I touched fell through. Everything. Except the two co-lists that were very generously given to me by the star agent. I think those worked out only because her sparkly golden fairy dust fell on them.
It's not that I was making a lot of money in real estate. Ok, it's not like I was making ANY money. But real estate had the POTENTIAL to bring in money in four-figure increments. By comparison, the prospect of $10 an hour feels like a rodent cage to me.
This is painful and difficult to write. But this blog is about being real and being honest. As much as I would like to crawl under a rock in complete humiliation and never tell anyone about my latest dismal failure, I know that I'm supposed to put on my big girl panties and write about it. About now, I'm thinking I could do without panties (big girl, granny, sexy, or otherwise). But I have to go on. And this blog is about seeing what happens next. And hoping that's something good and not just another train wreck. Either way, it's entertaining for YOU!
For today, I'm grateful to be sitting in the quiet haven of the church office letting the last of the pebbles from the land slide find their new places and settle in around me. It's a little dusty but the air is starting to clear. The velocity of the free-fall feeling seems to be slowing down a little. I find myself in that place of hoping not to go splat on a big slab of concrete at the end of all this. (Lord, please catch me! Don't let me land messily in the parking lot!) I still want to grasp at handfuls of air but there is comfort in trusting God or fate or spirit guides or SOMETHING to catch me, somehow, and set me gently on my feet, and give me a gentle nudge in the right direction. Just wish I knew which way that was!
I ended a previous post ("Clue Number Three") by saying that I was on the lookout for Clue Number Four. I guess I found it. It is not what I expected. Not even remotely. It SUCKS.
But the sun came up this morning. And I got up and I went for my morning walk. And now I have to figure out what's next. The signs say that I'm not supposed to be a realtor. Ugh. And that I'm supposed to write (because it makes me HAPPY). And I'm supposed to be creative (because it makes me HAPPY). And I have cool stuff (that makes me HAPPY) that people want to steal (which makes me UNhappy). I have no idea how I'll ever make a living at any of this. I think my spirit guides aren't very good accountants. But, you know, if they were accountants, they might be pretty dull. Surely the creativity that makes my heart happy and that makes me want to get up in the morning and go face the world again will be a good thing in the end. Somehow. At the very least, I can build a really cool cardboard house when I'm homeless someday!
Referring back to Sarah Ban Breathnach's book Peace and Plenty, she quotes Margery Wilson (20's-era movie star and of one the first successful female self-help authors):
"If you will just look around a bit you will, more than likely, find that the way out of the difficulty lies right under your nose. You already possess the means of your deliverance."
YOU ALREADY POSSESS THE MEANS OF YOUR DELIVERANCE!
Granted, I don't have a couple of best-sellers under my belt like Sarah and Margery do, but I live in the same universe, under the same sun and my own semi-warped version of the same God, and I do believe that the same principle can apply to me. Somehow. Unfolding like some Agatha Christie novel. Except probably not so neat and tidy. Or bloody. Hopefully.
I don't have the foggiest idea where I'm going but at least my key ring is one key lighter now. Maybe I'll start by digging out an old pair of my girls' ruby slippers. We had lots of those back when my girls were little and Walmart always carried ruby slippers because Walmart knew that every little girl needs ruby slippers. Big girls do too!