Introduction

If you had asked me how I felt about project management on May 28, 1993, I am sure I would have either laughed or asked you to define it. For on that late spring afternoon, I graduated from art school. Granted, I was not a glass blowing or basket weaving major, but it was still art school. I was going to become a world-class, wildly sought after children's book illustrator. I was going to scrape by and make ends meet until I had an agent and a shiny, crisp portfolio filled with legitimately published illustrations, carefully weeded of all school projects. This would, of course, happen within 6-14 months post-graduation, I was sure (I think this could have been a generous suffering period in my old mind).

Because, to that point, I felt I had scraped by. I had suffered. My parents insisted that I pay my rent and other living expenses from sophomore to senior year. Translation: full time school and full time job. Even in those days, Boston was expensive. My 94 dollar per week paycheck (no exaggeration) allowed me little to spare after rent. My best friend, Kara, and I shared a tiny (again, no exaggeration) studio apartment in Back Bay. It was not only in a severely roach infested building, but it also lacked drawers. Not even in the "“pantry."” By efficiency standards, the kitchenette was still absurdly miniature.

I would guess that we had approximately 500 square feet or less. We purchased a set of child-sized bunk beds to save on space. Each mattress was fashioned with brightly colored spaceship fabric and each was about as thin and as comfortable as a stick of Wrigley's chewing gum. We positioned the bunk beds in a small "nook" so they would not stick out that much (although they still did), allowing for maximum traffic space. One of the walls on the side of the beds was adjoining to the kitchenette. This wall had a window cut out of it, so if you were lying on the top bunk, you could see who ever might be helping herself to a glass of Tang. Though we fancied ourselves young intellectuals, we did not operate with a great deal of common sense. Thus the can of knives we placed on the bottom part of the "peek-a-boo" window. The can itself was adorned with elaborate acrylic brush strokes. One unfortunate roll-over in your sleep, though, and it was time to call an ambulance.

We lived on instant noodles (10 packages for a buck) and banana bread (often times we became impatient and had the raw mix). We thought we struck gold the night we saw someone at the 24-hour convenient store throw away day-old doughnuts from the bakery kiosk inside. We began waiting outside the store at midnight, anxious to take the stale bear claws and corn muffins off their hands. Since we usually crammed 10-hour homework assignments in the evening before they were due, the fried sugary goodness was just the fuel we required to make it through the night. We felt little-to-no shame as we traipsed across the street carrying the leftovers in a trash bag, Santa-style, up the steps.

We were real Bohemians, what with our forest scene second-hand rug and 3-legged dining table. We had 2 classy features in this apartment, however. (1) A fireplace with a fancy mantle and (2) a huge porcelain bathtub. The fireplace had a small radiator stuck inside of it and the bathtub was so big, it made mobility in the narrow bathroom nearly impossible. But this was our first apartment, so we were determined to enjoy it, no matter how cramped and in denial we might have been. In fact, we had friends over often. On exceptionally warm days, we would crank "“Play that Funky Music"” and pile out on the porch with a fist full of beer. Yes, we had a cement balcony that was meant for show, but dammit, we would spare nothing for the sake of entertaining guests. We piled about 4-5 friends out there without a fearful thought in our naive little minds. The decorative feature of the brownstone building was likely built for the occasional pigeon, but we threw caution straight to the wind in those days.

Project management meant nothing to me in those days. My life was a series of projects that I managed for free. I didn't realize that people actually made a living with this skill. Also, I got involved in project management in a somewhat ass-backwards way. Or maybe my destiny drove me to it. But in May 1993, all I could think about was getting out of Boston and breaking into the oh-so-hot illustration scene.