Who is dumb enough to ever want to manage such an animal?
I, in fact didn't. When the job as Program Manager was pitched to me this past winter I sat back in my chair, arms crossed, smiling confidently as I shook my head and said "no, absolutely not". Truth is, I said no three times, intent on breaking out of the seasonal job cycle which has both plagued and enhanced my personal and professional life (the line tends to get blurred) for well over a decade and can best be described as an existence going from being bored stiff pushing paper in the off-season and screaming high on adrenaline in the busy season.
Since the alternative wouldn't put me on the right career track or even as much as give me a high, I decided, after much deliberation to accept, not embrace the position, knowing that I was entering a love/hate relationship (essentially I hated that I loved it). Seven weeks doesn't sound like a lot but nor did six months when I managed private yacht clubs. I dare you to add up the hours... and then multiply it by fifteen curveballs per day, seven days per week.
So five months later I find myself in a 10' x 8' spartan dorm room (with a killer balcony if you climb out the window), living like a gypsy again. I'm giddy, perched on the top floor like an owl ogling the ground cover, listening to the rain tapping on my window, warning me of the approaching thunder storm. My soul is at rest, my mind at ease.
High or not, life is good.
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