I Used to Hustle

I used to be constantly moving and shaking. Shaking quite literally: with fear.

Fear drove my pitiful carcass for many years, pushing and shoving me to greater things. I was BRUISED by ambition. And once I started feeling happier and more settled, I worried about losing my much-fetishised ‘edge’. The shining, electric zeal that kept my eyes aching-wide and my brain churning.

Now, as an old lady, I have little need of the hustle. I have a lovely job that challenges me and keeps me too busy to freelance – what would I be hustling for?

I always expounded the virtues of staying sharp, keeping all your profiles sparkly. Sleeping with your shoes on and bags packed, basically. Powder dry.

But it’s tiring. If you’re spending hours a day worrying about how you look and how to position such-and-such little no-pay project, you’re spending less time on the doing bit. The bit that’s actually soulful and rewarding.

I guess it’s about faking it ’til you’re making it; reaching the point where you’re just ticking along, doing the job you wanted, is actually a whole lot more relaxing. You’re doing 10 times the work your 23-year-old self found exhausting – but it feels like home. You’re settled in your own backside-cradling chair and no one’s going to suddenly push you off and make you go run around outside in the cold for a bit. I’d love to see them try; I can just picture my lazy, reptilian stare from under half-closed eyelids. Oh, hun. Oh, sweetie no.

By nature, I’m a burrower. (Not a Borrower, though nearly.) A burrower: one who burrows in and sets up camp, leaving only when its own spreading volume forces a change in scene. I like a home. I do not flit. So my hustling was largely extra-curricular, which is a very unrelaxing way to move through life. Trying to freelance around a full-time job feels like how movies portray working in fashion: running around, crying, dropping things in the street and getting 10 dogs tangled around your legs.

Nay – not for me. No more. Having a few more hats piled on top of my company cloche has been a blessing. It’s forced me to stop hustling. Don’t have the room for it, and life is cosier without. These hats are warm af.

All that said, I have today done an aspirational thing. I bought a domain name that came to me in a dream – yes, that’s right. A dream-sent domain; millennial manna. My dream told me that my secondary initials – Augusta Rose Clement-Hayes – would make a great name for a copywriting venture. Arch also happens to be one of my favourite words. It’s my favoured demeanour: eyebrow cocked, half smile ready to form a sarcastic bon mot.

So, Arch Copy. archcopy.co.uk. I won’t be needing it for a good while but it’s mine. For when that hustle gets kicking again.

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