Help Wanted.

‘Classifieds’, typically nestled in the business and finance section of The Wall Street Journal, might seem like a relic in today's digital age. If you’re wondering who still reads them, its me. I’m single handedly keeping this bastion of classic connection alive. Enchanted by the corny headlines; 'Chance of a lifetime!,’ 'Opportunity knocks!' I get croissant crumbs on the page while circling ads randomly in red for fun, imagining myself the heroine of any meet-cute adventure.

About two years ago, a particular ad caught my eye—an older gentleman from Oregon, we’ll call him Otto, seeking to part with a business specializing in products for dry eyes. Something about the timing, the wording, the mood I was in, meant I mentally double clicked. Until then, I hadn’t taken the classifieds seriously at all. The idea of them being relevant or plausible hadn't crossed my mind. Frankly, I harbored suspicions towards anyone who'd advertise there.

As a dry-eye sufferer myself (See you’re learning all sorts of things about me) I know there’s a dearth of effective treatments and that this problem is prevalent and growing, (Thanks, screen-time.) I felt drawn to the prospect of revitalizing this declining enterprise. I loved the romantic notion that this was an ‘off market’ find. That I was uniquely tuned in to the sprawling communication style of an octogenarian in far off Oregon.

Longing for a sign, I convinced myself of serendipity (How many people with dry eyes read the classified section of the WSJ? Indeed how many dry eyed people can read the paper at all?) I reached out to the owner and signed an NDA, then took possession of a dusty box of products and printed press releases from the 80s. I sampled the product and made friends and family do the same. I was taken in by his charm and vintage way of organizing paperwork. (If you’re armchair psychoanalyzing me and wondering if I like a project, like to fix things and brought home strays as a kid🐱- you’re not far off.)

So I did what any normal person with five kids and a full time job would do, I stayed up late designing marketing plans for him free of charge to show what I thought could be done with his product and his brand. Mock product shoots against Oregon's lush backdrop, tweaking logos and typefaces, sourcing quotes for new packaging—my productivity reached fever pitch, akin to a scene from "A Beautiful Mind." And yes, like in "A Beautiful Mind," I found myself talking to myself.

Months of misaligned discussions later, I reluctantly abandoned the venture. He was just not that into me. However, a seed had taken root. Buying a business, Good idea. Buying THIS business, bad idea.

From this realization a level unlocked. There are businesses out there which are of value, where I can see a future for them that the owner maybe cannot or will not. Where me + the future of this business = more than it currently is looking forward to. Were there more of them? How would I find them? How would I make myself a more alluring candidate next time? Going from founder or employee to buyer is a transformation. And like all good transformations, this can take place quietly, under wraps and while other things are going on.

For me, the change begins externally, and that informs and convinces my mind of what we’re doing now. In a sense, you turn yourself into a buyer in the eye of the beholder, and eventually in your own internal narrative too. Life is a series of auditions to ourselves. When we’re little we understand this, and try on different roles, skills and identities uninhibited. As we get older, we hopefully find the things that fit and feel good. The people, the clothing, the music, the food and the skills. The idea of trying on a new identity once you have one established, is about as tempting as getting dressed up to go out on a Saturday night once you’re in your pajamas. And I probably like my pajamas more than most. But now I was picking up alternative futures and turning them this way and that, like a plaything. Before setting them gently back down.

Buying anything begins in this case with selling yourself. I started to hone and tweak my personal brand, in preparations for wanting sellers, lenders, and investors to swipe right on me.

A few years back, I found myself on a show that rhymes with Snark Bank. I can't divulge much about that time, but I can tell you this: as I prepared to step onto the set, Nerves shattered, the handlers were shouting, "ABS! Tamar, "ABS!" At the time, I was clueless, unnerved by their fervor. Later, in my trailer, when it was too late to do anything about it, I learned ABS meant "Always be Selling." And always selling we are.

The first sale, and the one that leads to the others, is convincing yourself to give a new title, role, vertical identity a try. Your inner sharks may push back, this can be the toughest sell of all. If you can’t get past that, maybe you can take the back route like me, and see the sale be accepted in the worlds eyes, and then your own. In undergoing a transformation, things don’t have to happen all at once. And they won’t. Like Cinderella’s telltale pumpkin tendrils, we may have clues of our past selves clumsily sticking out of the new form. I’m learning you can scoop those up and bring them along for the ride.