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Relearning lessons hardly an easy thing
By Patti Pfeiffer
For the past decade the little-known remote, curvy, near-mountainous road had become a favorite spot of mine; a place to burn calories while conquering the two-mile trek at a fast clip. So often I indulged in the course I'd whittled the time down to 13 minutes a mile.
Yet, this particular day I'd spent an hour on the grueling, physically challenging walk, pushing myself beyond reasonable limit as a preventive measure, in an effort to relieve pressure, expel built-up steam, prevent an implosion.
Exhaustion rendered me unfit, the task impossible. This? This walk was my ritual. But this day, energy lacking, the route was left incomplete, the hills rendered too high.
My eyes shut. The wind shook the stillness. Bird songs bellowed. Time ceased. Whew. I exhaled. Deeply exhaled. Knees pulled to chest, ringed with tightly wrapped arms, I lowered my head resting it on my body's makeshift perch.
Why? I whispered softly. Why? Short in duration, long in hard knocks, bad experiences, the reason escaped me at that moment.
Tears trickled.
I knew better. The lesson had been taught before. Yet the pain was long ago forgotten. Months had erased the unnatural, albeit necessary, bent toward professionalism, the required application of line-drawing, disengaging, of protectionism. For as long as I've known me, I've been a giver and nurturer. And that's not always a good thing, especially working as a real estate agent.
Darn it. How had it happen again? I silently scolded myself while stifling the urge to let go, give in. Finally, after days of withholding, I cried. It was well deserved. Long past due.
She'd gotten to me that much. It wasn't all the hard work, endless hours, hundreds of miles, countless hoop-jumping episodes, the going beyond, or even the giving of all. Nor was it the loss of commission, money earned but never to be collected. It was personal. She wanted it that way, lured me in, then sliced and diced away.
"Cybil" was such a sweet and charming woman. A referral from a friend, she was eager to buy a home. Of course I was eager to assist. Within a few hours of our initial phone conversation and with little preparation time, the research was conducted, criteria-matching homes were provided, appointments made, wheels were rolling. I was in high gear and making tracks. The search was on -- over many miles, through several cities, across a couple of counties and all in a matter of mere hours.
That late afternoon progressed into evening, the next day and a few more marathon meetings filled with showings and sharing. Our time together entailed lunches, even a late night birthday dinner wherein Cybil invited me in. She shared her history, most of her life story.
Then later, upon Cybil's request, I visited her home, met her dogs, was introduced to her pet sitter.
It was obvious. I became convinced she was wanting another friend there by her side. Intrigued, impressed with her strides, sensing she was honorable and worthy, I dismissed my senses and did abide. Then, when trust was deepest, my guard eliminated, my best given, Cybil's counter appeared. A chameleon emerged. She turned. And turned ugly
High was the price I paid for that refresher course.
Now I sat, blinded by a wave of emotions and stinging from the cut, replaying the rollercoaster ride, the week's upheaval and questioning so much. I recalled the remuneration which can't be taken away. After finding Cybil's perfect home, making an unbelievable highly favorable and accepted offer, she spoke words more valuable than currency. "I can't believe you've only been doing this two years. I've ever worked agents who've been an agent for 20-30 years who don't have the knowledge you do and are as you good as you."
I replayed her words. How muted their sound.
I reviewed a recent text to a buddy, "She has sucked me dry, worn me out and made me question why I took on this career which makes me so sad because I got such joy from helping people." Their comeback comment was a get-back-up sort of reply, "Don't let her take that away from you."
And sometime very soon, I'll lace up my shoes, focus on the road ahead, ignoring the past and once again conquer those hills. It's neither personal nor professional. Just life's dictated path.
Patti Pfeiffer is a columnist for Star Local News, freelance writer and author. She can be reached at pattip913@msn.com
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