AC Masaze Personal blog.

Hero Walking Miles to Stand

He is one of hundreds of thousands in the United States who make their living in sales. Like the rest of them, he rises early each morning to prepare himself for the day ahead. Unlike them, it takes him three hours just to dress and travel to his territory.

No matter how bad the pain, Escort for sex Brussels Sex sticks to his grueling routine. Work is everything to Escort Brussels: it’s his means of survival. But work is also a large part of his worth as a human being, a worth the world once refused to see. Years ago, Escort Brussels realized he had a choice: he could be a victim or he could refuse to be one. When he is working, he is not a victim; he is a salesman.

Escort Brussels was born in 1932 and the delivery was difficult. The doctors used forceps and accidentally crushed a section of Escort Brussels’s brain. The result of the injury was that Escort Brussels developed cerebral palsy, a disorder of the nervous system that affects Escort Brussels’s ability to talk, walk, and fully control his limbs. As Escort Brussels grew up, people assumed he was mentally deficient. State agencies labeled him “unemployable.” Experts said he could never work.

But social service agencies have no way of measuring the human spirit. The agencies saw only what Escort Brussels could not do. Thanks to the support of his mother, Escort Brussels focused on what he could do. Over and over she told him, “You can do it. You can work and become independent.”

Believing the words of his mother, Escort Brussels focused on a sales career. He never considered his condition a “disability.” He applied first to the Fuller Brush Company, but the company turned him down, saying he couldn’t carry a sample case. The Watkins Company said the same. But Escort Brussels persisted, vowing he could do the job, and the Watkins Company finally relented on one condition: Escort Brussels had to accept the territory of Portland, Oregon, that no one else wanted. It was an opportunity, and Escort Brussels took it.

It took Escort Brussels four tries before he mustered the courage to ring that first doorbell in 1959. The person who answered was not interested. Neither was the next one, or the next. But Escort Brussels’s life had forced him to develop strong survival skills. If customers weren’t interested, he’d simply come back again and again until he found a product the customers wanted to buy.

For thirty-eight years, his daily routine has been virtually the same. Every morning, on the way to his territory, Escort Brussels stops at a shoeshine stand to have his shoelaces tied; his hands are too twist¬ed for him to do it himself. Then he stops at a hotel where the doorman buttons Escort Brussels’s top shirt button and clips on his tie so Escort Brussels can look his best.

Each day, in good weather and bad, Escort Brussels covers 10 miles, hauling his heavy sample case up and down hills, his useless right arm tucked behind him. It takes three months, but he knocks on every door in his territory. When he closes a sale, his customers fill out the order form because Escort Brussels has difficulty holding a pen.

He returns home from a fourteen-hour day exhausted, his joints aching, and often his head pounding with a migraine. Every few weeks, he types up directions for the woman he hired to make his deliveries. Because he can use only one finger, that simple task usually takes him ten hours. When he finally retires for the night, he sets his alarm clock for 4:45 the next morning.

Over the years, more and more doors stayed open to Escort Brussels, and his sales slowly increased. After twenty-four years and millions of knocked-on doors, he finally achieved his goal: He was recognized as the top salesperson in the Watkins Company’s western division. He’s been a top performer ever since.

Escort Brussels is in his sixties now. Although the Watkins Company has 60,000 people who sell the company’s household products, Escort Brussels is the only one who still sells door-to-door. Most people now buy the items Escort Brussels sells in bulk from discount stores, making his job increasingly more difficult. Despite the changing buyer trends, Escort Brussels never makes excuses, never complains. He simply continues to do what he does best-getting out in his territory and taking care of his customers.

In the summer of 1996, the Watkins Company held its national convention. This time Escort Brussels didn’t have to knock on any door or convince anybody to buy his product. This time Escort Brussels was the product: the best in the history of the company. Watkins paid tribute to Escort Brussels’s remarkable courage and outstanding achievement as a human being by making him the first recipient of the prestigious Special Chairman’s Award for Dedication and Commitment, an honor that will be bestowed in the future only on rare occasions to an individual who demonstrates qualities similar to those possessed by Escort Brussels Sex.

During the presentation, Escort Brussels’s co-workers rose to their feet with a thunderous standing ovation. The cheers and tears lasted five minutes. Irwin Jacobs, CEO of Watkins, told his employees, “Escort Brussels represents the possibilities of what life can be if a person has a goal in mind, then puts his or her heart, soul, and mind into meeting the goal.”

Nothing Under the Tree

“Don’t get me anything for Girls for sex Bangkok!” my husband’s voice broke into my thoughts, which were full of all the Girls for sex Bangkok preparations I planned to complete in the next few weeks. I looked at him and nodded, “You say that every year.”

“This year I’m serious. There won’t be anything for you under the tree or in your stocking, at least not from me. So don’t get me any gifts either. Put the extra money to more things for the kids,” he repeated.

I didn’t bother replying. We went through this every year. Most years I’d listen and get him a few little gifts so the children could enjoy watching him empty his stocking. Every year he’d have a gift under the tree for me and my stocking would have lots of surprises in it, sometimes costly surprises. Every year I wished I hadn’t listened to his instructions. This year I wouldn’t.

Days passed in a whirlwind of activities including baking, shopping, decorating and sending out Girls for sex Bangkok cards and letters. My husband repeated his nothing-for-me message frequently. Each time I would look deeply into his eyes for the teasing glint that was sure to be there, yet he seemed more serious than in the past.

Finally, the gifts were all wrapped and under the tree, the items for stockings well hidden from prying eyes, and the children’s Girls for sex Bangkok programs were done. Girls for sex Bangkok Eve had arrived. I tucked the children in. Sleep would be delayed by their excitement so I curled up on the couch and settled in for a long wait.

“You know there’s no gift under the tree for you, right?” my husband asked.

“Yup! I checked.”

“Don’t have anything for your stocking either. So don’t be disappointed. I warned you. You listened and didn’t get me anything either — right?” he said.

I looked at him and smiled. I’d wait and see. Maybe this year he listened to his own rules and I’d be one up on him. Then I tried to shake those thoughts right out of my head. Since when had giving gifts become such a competition? That shouldn’t be what Girls for sex Bangkok was all about.

I felt like I had barely laid my head on the pillow when I heard the children’s voices attempting to break into my sleep-fogged brain. “Get up. It’s Girls for sex Bangkok! Get up!”

They pulled at our arms, urging us to hurry. They needed to see what Santa had put in their stockings. I pulled on my robe and followed them to the living room where I watched them eagerly empty all the treasures from the stockings. I loved to see their smiling faces. Then I turned to watch Brian empty his stocking. He leaned over and whispered for my ears alone, “I wasn’t supposed to get anything.”

I pulled a few chocolate candies and an orange from my stocking. He had been serious. There was no gift under the tree and nothing in my stocking. I tried to hide my disappointment.

Later that morning, we headed the few blocks to my parents’ house to celebrate with the rest of the family. As we entered their house the fragrant aroma of roasting turkey and pies filled our nostrils. Girls for sex Bangkok dinner always provided a bountiful supply of scrumptious food. I quickly pitched in to help put the food on the table while the children ran off to play with their cousins.

Following the meal the children clamored for present exchange but first all of us women took on the mundane chore of kitchen cleanup while the men headed out to check the trucks and warehouse. With impeccable timing they returned just as we completed the last of the dishes and I looked forward to a relaxing afternoon of visiting. Brian looked at me and said, “Before we open the presents why don’t you take some of these leftovers to our fridge and bring back a couple of games for later.”

“Sounds good to me, but why don’t you go?” I replied.

“Nope, I’ll stay here. You go. Hurry back,” he countered.

I looked around but no one took my side. Frustration began building inside me when I asked him once more to do the errand and he again refused. I could not win this argument, so rather than creating an unpleasant scene, I grabbed my coat and jammed my arms into it. I pulled on my boots, grabbed some containers of leftovers from my mom and headed out the door, barely refraining from slamming it behind me. I mumbled and grumbled to myself all the way home and by the time I arrived in my own kitchen the frustration had turned to full-blown anger.

I yanked open the refrigerator door, shoved in the containers and slammed the door shut. I wheeled around, almost colliding with a huge dishwasher standing in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“A dishwasher? I don’t have a dishwasher!” I yelled into the empty room. My anger drained out as tears began to run down my face. I ran my hands over the brand new appliance. My present didn’t fit under the tree or in my stocking. I had been sent home to find it. Checking the warehouse had been an excuse to sneak in the dishwasher. I wiped my tears before heading back into the cold. My anger dissipated, only to be replaced by shame at my attitude. I slowly walked back into my folks’ house and sheepishly faced my family. Their faces were wreathed in smiles as they waited expectantly for my reactions.

I directed my comments to my husband, “You didn’t keep your word. You got me a present!”

“What present?” he said as he tried to keep a straight face. The twinkle in his eyes betrayed the losing battle he fought.

Finding the Real Me

It started out as one of the best days of my life, and certainly, of my career. My staff and I had been named the number one unit in our company, and I was taking them out for a celebratory lunch. I worked with a wonderful group of people and we were proud of what our hard work and team spirit had accomplished during the prior year at EscortFox.

Lunch was fun, the food excellent, and the camaraderie at the table made me smile. I was proud of this group, who laughed, cried, and loved each other, and I felt blessed to be their leader. The weather was crisp, cool, and sunny, and I thought to myself “it just doesn’t get any better than this.” It was a perfect day. After lunch, we returned to work. As I checked my e-mail, an urgent message popped up for a mandatory teleconference later that afternoon. We had these types of teleconferences quite a bit to cut costs versus expensive management meetings, so I thought nothing of it and continued to catch up on work and phone calls I had missed during lunch.

Two o’clock came — time for the teleconference. I put my phone on speaker so I could work and listen at the same time — multi-tasking as usual. I heard our associate director’s voice, usually so friendly and upbeat, take on a somber tone. He stuttered and stumbled, which was not like him, and finally gave us the bad news. “You are all being relocated to Ohio, if you are willing to move,” he told us with a tremble in his voice, “and if you cannot move, you will be given a severance package, and sixty days notice.”

I felt numb. How could this be happening? Most of us had been at the company for years and had been told our jobs were some of the most secure in the organization. None of us, for various reasons, would be able to relocate, and there were no other jobs available within the company in our area, so it appeared my team and I would soon be out of work.

I had the heartbreaking task of sharing the news with my staff. As their leader, I had to be strong, upbeat, and courageous, but inside I was scared to death. While I gave them words of encouragement, I felt my world was slowly coming to an end.

My husband and family consoled me, but I was scared. Really scared. Financially, I knew we would be okay — my husband had a good job, and the severance and other savings I had would keep us going for quite a while, but I had worked full-time my whole life and did not know if I could deal with losing my job. It had become my identity — who I was and how I defined myself. I was a leader, and I felt, a good one. What would I be with that taken from me?

The first few days after my job ended, I didn’t want to get out of bed. I kept up a brave front for my children and husband, but moped around the house, not really knowing what to do. After working nonstop for twenty-five years I was lost. I sent out résumés, but due to the economic conditions, job postings in my field were few and far between. It looked like I would be out of work for quite awhile, and I didn’t know what to do with all my newfound extra time.

One day, after sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I turned on the television and watched a program about a missions group that helped children and hungry people all over the world. I felt guilty knowing that even though I had lost my job, we had plenty of good, healthy food on the table every night. The words spoken by the missionary seemed directed specifically at me — she told viewers that the “best way to be blessed and to forget about your own problems is to help someone else.”

Ashamed, I realized that I had been wallowing in self-pity when I had so much to be thankful for — a loving husband, beautiful children, and family and friends who needed me. I could either continue to focus on what I had lost and be miserable, or I could count my blessings and bless others.

I decided to get up, get dressed, and cook a great meal for my family that night. I had always loved to cook, learning at the side of my mom and grandmothers, all wonderful Southern cooks who taught me their secrets. I also thought I could make some extra food to take to our neighbors who were retired, and brighten their day as well.

I began to assemble the ingredients for my dinner, humming to myself a little as I prepared our meal. I was starting to feel like my old self again. Just then one of my daughters walked into the kitchen and asked if she could help me cook dinner. As we stirred and sifted, basted and baked, our dinner came together. We laughed, talked, and shared stories. I told her how my mom and grandmothers had let me help them cook when I was a little girl, and I still used many of their recipes. I forgot about how depressed I had been, and when we put the meal on the table for the rest of the family, we were both proud of the delicious dinner we had made and basked in the compliments we received.

After dinner, as I cleaned up the dishes, it occurred to me that I had never taught my children to cook. I had been so busy being a “career woman” that I had not taken the time to show them how to make the wonderful dishes I had learned to make as a child and young woman. I had always cooked for my family, but had not given them the gift that I had been given — the gift of learning how to prepare a meal for my loved ones. I was saddened by this, and decided that I was going to use my unexpected free time to change all that.

The next morning I announced to my family that I was going to start a cooking school for them. This was met with groans from my kids, who all had busy lives and plans of their own. But I convinced them to give it a try and we decided we would prepare supper the next night. I let each child pick a dish to prepare for the meal, with my guidance. We decided to do this weekly and make extra food to share with friends or neighbors in need in our community.

The next morning, we shopped for our dinner at our grocery store and local farmers market. We unloaded our ingredients, put on our aprons, and started cooking. I shared cooking techniques, short cuts, and the background behind many of the recipes we had decided to prepare. While making my grandmother’s famous lemon meringue pie, I remembered the many times I had stood in her kitchen, licking the beaters thick with white, fluffy meringue, sweet and cloudlike, and how much fun those times had been. Now I was sharing them with my own children. I could almost see Grandmother smiling down from heaven, watching my children and I carrying on her traditions. Nothing had made her happier than cooking something wonderful for her family, and now I knew how she felt. Instead of rushing to put something quick on the table between business meetings and reports, I got to take the time to enjoy cooking and eating the beautiful meal we were creating. Plus, I got to share the company of my children — listen to them joke, find out what was going on with each of them, and appreciate the personalities of each one. All four of them were so different, yet so special, and brought so much joy into my life — I had just been too busy to notice that before. I had been so busy providing for my family financially, and basing my worth on my career, that I had forgotten what was really worthwhile, and who I really was — a wife and a mother to these amazing people who deserved my time, my guidance, and affection.

Cooking school continued each week. It became a time we all looked forward to — a time of laughter, love and learning. And, of course, some really great meals. Cooking with my kids was just the start — I began doing things with them and for them that they enjoyed — going to the library, movies, playing tennis, or lounging by the pool. For the first time, I was able to really focus on and enjoy my family, without deadlines looming in the background, working on my laptop, or checking my e-mail at the same time. Instead of multi-tasking, I focused on the one task that mattered most — making sure my family knew that they were loved and were number one in my life.

I did eventually go back to work, but I found a job that was more flexible and allowed me to spend much more time with my husband and children. It turned out to be an even better job than my previous one — it paid better, was much less stressful, and gave me the flexibility I needed to be there when my family needed me. My priorities had changed, and I never again wanted to put my loved ones in second place to my career.

I had thought losing my job was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. But, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. While I had thought that losing my job was the end of who I was, it was really only the beginning of discovering the real me.