When the owner of a small promotions company I was managing in 1996 took up tossing Timbits® as his hobby — more specifically — when I got bonked in the head with one of them for the second time, I took my leave.
I like to think of it along the lines of Sir Isaac Newton’s apple-falls-to-ground-OMG-that-must-be-gravity epiphany.
My wife of the day, finding me home early, delirious with excitement about both my newly-won freedom and my impending fame as the world’s greatest advertising copywriter, liked to think of it as her first conclusive evidence as to my insanity. Thankfully the divorce court and more importantly, my three great kids, all chose to overlook her assertion and they still hug me and kiss me (the kids — not the court).
After a few lucky breaks early on and a couple of years of subcontracting to small town ad agencies, things got busy and have stayed that way: no one has thrown a donut hole at me since; I get to create a lot of fun and more often than not, effective marketing material; it turns out I love writing creative briefs, managing projects and getting customer projects done and done well. My company, The Graphic Language Company, is, as I am, Canadian by birth. Our clients and partners hang (or have hung — not hanged) their hats in places as exotic as Bermuda, Australia, the U.S. of A, Denmark, India, Grand Cayman, and of course, as my super-elite marathon running friend Chantelle likes to call it — Kanuckistan (Canada).
The clients are happy (well at least no less happy than they were before we met). I’m happy. The kids are all healthy and mostly happy (at least so long as their periodic “hitting me up for money” efforts meet with some success). I have two gorgeous grandsons. And that particular ex now works and lives somewhere near polar bears — and no, she’s neither a zookeeper nor a fur coat maker.
Some days I miss the dog. Most days.
Fallen apples image courtesy stock.xchng