Boss vs. Bought

I'd like to think that I'm extremely ambitious.

Not sure if I was aware of it until recently. It dawned on me when I was thinking about all the things I want to accomplish in my lifetime career-wise. I was pissed that I was 22 and hadn't mapped my life out yet and decided on the name/title of the career I wanted to pursue. This summer, actually, I answered myself. There is no one occupation I want to claim. 

I want seven. Yes, seven. And I intend to have them all. Possibly simultaneously (we'll see how that goes).  

Now, in my current field (good ol' journalism), me living a quote unquote lavish life isn't going to be immediate by ANY means. Ha! No BMW. No posh condo nestled in the heart of the city. No Diane Von Furstenberg, YSL, Miu Miu, Louis V or Louboutin for me. Which is fine. Bragging about having all that stuff would just make me a buyer, or bought rather. Not necessarily a boss. 

Success isn't being a buyer. It's being a BOSS. 


Now, if you're about your business, have been about your business, and will continue to be about your business, then toot your horn and splurge because you deserve it. But the sad thing is, more than half of our generation hasn't grasped the concept of being a boss. 

I'm not talking about boss in the sense of being a person that gives orders to others. 

It's a state of mind. A testament of your work ethic. Respected power.

It's not selling out and thinking that because you can [temporarily] afford the latest, trendiest bells and whistles, you're good money. No, hun. That doesn't mean squat. That just means you scraped your last shillings together to glamorize one aspect of your life, while you struggle in another. That can't be me.

We all know the phrase, "I respect their hustle." Be about that life. 

Don't get me wrong, in time I'll get those things. We can all have these things. We can all live that baller-esque lifestyle.

But earn it with your resume, not your refund check. Now that's bawse. 



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Getting Past “Should”

In 2017, I sat in the pews of three churches or the rows of fancy reception halls watching two people in love become one union. And for the weddings I didn’t attend, I saw enough of the ceremony on social media to make me feel like I was there, dodging the thrown bouquet per usual. I always wonder if their special day came close to (or exceeded) what they drummed up in their dreams prior to. Culturally, we joke and say that from youth, us women, prayerful brides-to-be, spend years planning for their weddings, regardless of if the husband part of the equation has been factored in yet. We know the style and cut of engagement rings, possible surprise engagement scenarios, the type of dress and hair, locations and venues, months, seasons, guest lists, table decor, honeymoons, you name it. And it’s a fun and wonderful thing to imagine. I love to chime in to the building of this fantasy as, through age, we inch towards their realities. All my life I’ve wanted to become a best friend turned
Read more

"Find Christ At The River"

As soon as the brown heap landed in her lap, Sylvie knew hell could come as quickly as she wanted it to. It was wet and cold when it hit her, splattering into a million little blobs at the base of the white swimsuit making its first appearance all summer. Grainy chunks spread out across wide thighs, over the hibiscus plant neatly drawn around the right one, peppered with pores. It wasn’t even the good kind of sand; the white, wispy, Sandals resort in Cabo kind of sand. It was ruddy, river dirt sand. The kind people who didn’t live close enough to a proper coast had to settle for. The kind that when it sticks to your toes makes them sooty instead of ashy. The kind that stains your beach towel. The kind that when sugar-high kids play with it, it becomes mud pies instead of sandcastles, and when it lands in your lap—the lap of a stranger trying to sunbathe—it doesn't sting so much as make you stew. She imagined herself grabbing a fistful of it into her hands, snatching up the blonde g
Read more

Hinge-Toothed Prophets

He was looking for a friend. I was looking for silence. My eyes stayed low, focused on my hollowing bag of plantain chips. I had gotten the last pack on the plane and the snack trolley had only gone six rows back. Admittedly, they weren't that interesting to study as they dwindled, those salty slivers I knew I shouldn't be indulging in, but I felt his eyes strong on me, neck craned to the left from his windowless window seat in my direction. But I refused to meet his eyes. Doing so would be a non-verbal contract of on-and-off conversation for the better part of three hours and forty minutes. He already told me about some of his whereabouts. "You going to Guyana?" The vessel was packed to the brim with fussy, impatient, slow-bustling, heavy-tongued and sharp-eyed travelers with Jamaican and Guyanese passports, or those who eventually traded them in for matte, navy blue USA booklets. From the look of me, I would be exiting the plane in Kingston, just like from the look
Read more