I am pretending to be smart. I am in the library at the University of Oregon, sipping a decaf non-fat latte and typing away on my Mini iPad like I have something very important to say. I don’t. As always, I am dealing with the monumental struggle of thinking I should write something important when in reality most of what I write is about how I feel fat. I might as well just admit it: no great play or literature has ever come from someone who, a) will not sit down to write; and b) only thinks about herself and how she is aging daily without having contributed anything of importance to the planet. Except for my children, of course, but is that my accomplishment? No, it’s theirs. I was simply the vessel from which they were delivered. Like, I got a “Bowfinger” DVD from Amazon the other day, and I love “Bowfinger,” but I don’t think Amazon created it.
Two months ago I applied to be on the Disney Mom’s Panel (an unpaid writing job that does not qualify as “important” but looked like it would be fun). You can write to the Mom’s Panel on the Disney website and ask them “real life” questions about your upcoming Disney vacation and they will give you “real life” answers. When I found the application link on Facebook there were only five more hours until they were closed to submissions, so I spent a few minutes answering the seven essay questions and pushed Send. The next day I did some research and discovered that 10,000 – 15,000 women apply for only 50 or so positions, and I had no way of knowing how many positions were even open this year. This is a highly coveted and sought-after panel, and people try for it year after year. I’m not sure how many make it to round 2, but I read somewhere it was 300. Guess what? I made it to Round 2! I had to answer more questions and make a video this time. I spent a little longer composing the answers, but not much, and pushed Send. I did not make it to Round 3. Okay, it seems that half-assed measures only get you as far as Round 2. The people who went on to Round 3 are serious about Disney and are really good at grammar. I am neither. But here is the thing: I was really upset! I was so sad that I didn’t get picked for something I didn’t even really want to do. I was moping around the house, trying to pinpoint what this uncomfortable yet familiar feeling was… and then it dawned on me: Rejection! Oh! “Hello Rejection my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again. It’s been years! Welcome back. Still strong as ever, I see. Good for you! Now away with you because from now on I am only writing my blog where everyone loves me and I am never going to try to do anything where I might be rejected ever, ever again. So there.”
Luckily, Rejection only stays around a little while. (Thank God; he is a horrible houseguest.) Eventually he is replaced by Curiosity, Hope, Confidence, and the worst ever — Trying Again. Then most of the time Rejection comes back, and you start the entire cycle over again. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. No way around it. I’m not sure if I have it in me to write anything else but this blog. But, I do know that I think maybe, I might, perhaps, maybe, try. After all, Rejection and I know each other well. He couldn’t stop me when I was a dancer, so I doubt he can stop me now.