I like money. I know it doesn’t bring happiness, but it certainly helps. I’ve always worked hard for my money. I got my first job at a local café when I was only 13 and earned a measly $20 a day, but it meant I was free to go down to the local corner store and buy a big bag of mixed lollies for 20c, a Bonny Belle lip gloss from the chemist and one of those horoscope scrolls that I lived my life by at the time.
My next job was at a health food store where I had the awful job of packing sultanas. I also ran a pretty successful babysitting operation at the same time. It felt so good to have a sense of independence and not relying on my parents for handouts made me, and mum and dad, proud.
I studied hard at school and uni and when I got my first job in magazines, the pay was so dismal I worked three nights a week waiting tables so I could save up enough money for a deposit for my first apartment. When you’re earning $23K a year, it takes a long time to save up $30K, so I stayed at home and kept the two-job scenario going until I reached my goal at the age of 25.
Everyone knows that you don’t work in magazines for the money, but my pay of course improved over the 18 years I spent working in publishing and when I left the industry two years ago I was earning a very respectable salary. It allowed me to live in a beautiful house, have a nice car, go on overseas holidays, eat out at restaurants a couple of times a week, generously donate to charities, maintain an enviable beauty and health regime and last but not least, my wardrobe was pretty great (it had to be, I worked in fashion). I knew how lucky I was and there wasn’t a day that went by that I wasn’t grateful for all that I had. I’d worked hard and it had paid off. I let myself believe it would only ever get better.