I never meant to be a Realtor. There, I said it.
Nope. Not for me.
The abuse that I saw my father absorb. The tense phone conversations in which the familiar voice grew eerily calm. The clenched jaw. The timebank always under one arm. The phone calls while on vacation. The last minute canceling of plans. The nightmares about missed appointments.
No, thank you. Not for me.
Growing up on the mean streets of Scottsdale, life could get pretty rough. I was one of the fortunate ones who escaped the vicious cycle of house wrapping and ding-dong ditch through youth soccer. I shutter to think where I would be today without it. Probably right here, I suppose, only minus all of those halftime orange wedges. I could have developed scurvy for God sakes! From the age of 5 through my early 20's, soccer defined me.
Right about the time I headed off for Texas Christian University, I began to realize that the European leagues were not scouting me particularly hard. To this day, I am not sure how they missed such precocious talent. They were obviously not keeping tabs on the exploits of former blue ribbon winners for the 50 yard dash in Cochise Elementary School Field Day competitions. Don't ask me. I don't get it either. So after a lifetime of competing, I hung up the spikes for good after a few collegiate seasons. I did dust them off several years later for the sole purpose of shredding a hammy. Quite successfully, I might add.
Absent the one thing that had always served as my identity, it was time to figure out exactly what I would do with the next 20-30 years of my life. Juggling was out. Too many hours spent with my feet to make up for years of neglecting my hand-eye coordination. Ditto for a career in orthodontics. A faceful of metal throughout my entire high school existence was more than enough time spent in that field, thank you. I was terribly disappointed to learn that I was on the wrong continent to play bass in a reggae band. All the better, though, when you consider that I cannot play bass and the dreadlock thing just wasn't working. As far as I knew, nobody was hiring college grads to listen to Pink Floyd. So what now? Certainly not Real Estate.
To this day, I still don't know what happened. I was doing my typical soul searching on a Tuesday morning when a light bulb exploded in my head. Not one of those cheap ones that you replace every two months, but a brilliant incandescent beacon. Dormant red Realtor blood cells sprung to life as purpose coursed through my veins. It was an honest to goodness "Luke, I am your father" type of epiphany. There was no point denying it any longer. I was groomed to be a Scottsdale, AZ Real Estate agent. That day was 8 years ago in March.
Now it is my oldest son that knows he is not meant to be a Realtor.
Nope. Not for him.
Not even 2 years old, he sees the abuse his father absorbs. The tense conversations in which the familiar voice grows eerily calm. The clenched jaw. The timebank always under one arm. The phone calls while on vacation. The last minute canceling of plans. The nightmares about missed appointments.
Not for him.
So without further ado ...
Contact Jack Slaybaugh for all of your Scottsdale, AZ Real Estate needs ... in 2030!
Not sure that I hit on 5 things, but that's me in a nutshell.
All aboard the Meme train: Ray Slaybaugh, Rochelle Kosanovich, Yvonne Root