That first year was a masterclass in misery. I’d drive around all day, my legs numb in jeans that were far too tight, my feet aching in those stupid shoes, and a collared shirt tucked in so securely it felt like a straitjacket. On my wrist, I wore some oversized, gaudy watch that didn’t scream “success,” but rather “I have no sense of fashion.” Then, after a full day of this performance, I’d get home, take off my costume, and finally exhale. I’d change into my “normal” attire: a faded T-shirt and comfortable jeans. I’d eat a peanut butter sandwich over the sink and decompress by shooting empty Mountain Dew bottles off the back porch railing with a suppressed .22 (because the .45-70 would wake the neighbors). Simply put, I was being fake. The fella I was from 9 to 5 was a fabrication; the real me only came out after hours. I wasn’t authentic.

So, here’s my confession: I would rather eat a double quarter-pounder with cheese at McDonald’s than a steak at Morton’s, and as a traveling rep, I am in fact a frequent consumer of McDonald’s. I would rather wear a pair of rugged, dependable Wranglers than a pair of designer Brunello Cucinelli’s that cost more than my monthly car payment. Wranglers are tough; I can climb into a dusty fireplace to inspect a damper or get down on my knees on a concrete floor to adjust the manifold pressure of a fireplace without worrying about getting soot on an expensive pair of jeans.

Even if I could afford a Rolex, I’d choose my Casio G-Shock every single time. Why? Because I can bang it around under a fireplace, smack it against a brick hearth, and not spend the rest of the day worrying that I cracked a crystal or damaged a delicate automatic movement. It tells time, it’s tough as nails, and it costs less than dinner at one of those fancy restaurants I’m supposed to like. A simple $6 T-shirt from Walmart is fine by me—and for the record, I still don’t like shirts with collars.

The turning point wasn’t a single moment, but a slow realization that my act was failing. I was exhausted from the effort. The real change began when, during a visit with a dealer in a rural area, my carefully constructed facade slipped. We were talking about a new product line, and I accidentally let my accent slip out while telling a story about a fishing trip. I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. The conversation shifted. We spent ten minutes talking about the best bait for smallmouth bass before seamlessly transitioning back to business. I left that meeting not with a massive order, but with a relationship that felt solid and real. It was a lightbulb moment. My “weakness” was actually a bridge.