I once had the good fortune of dating a guy who was working on a start up for quite a while. Good guy. Great sense of humor, great grammar, great personality. I didn’t understand him, I didn’t.
Not that I didn’t try.
I didn’t know what you’re supposed to say to someone with passion that Michelangelo would have been jealous of. This person would work hours into the night, creating a logo. He didn’t have a functional company, but at least he had the idea, all he wanted to do was start a business, and be his own boss. He had too many ideas I didn’t understand.
We couldn’t have been more different.
He was passionate, and me, lacklustre. Where he was driven and had his own ideas, I was okay with being told what to do. We were chalk and cheese. He wasn’t actively making money, and when he said he was working, I secretly felt weird because he didn’t have an “actual job” or even office space! I was mad he lived with his parents at the ripe age of 34, and there were times I wished he would slog like I did.
Office job, nine to five, salaries, soulless coffee.
I think I was kind of jealous of him. He was his own boss, and happy and positive. And I was a bitter person with way too many complaints about life. I guess I was unhappy being forced into working for someone and being dependent on a boss who would dole out money – while he was happy despite his company’s failure to launch for three whole years.
He never lost hope, even when I would go ranting about the age gap. What did I do? I gave up. The worst thing I could possibly do.