DEFINITE MAYBE

I am in the rejection business.

I always have been.

But I was prepared. Never allowed to utter the words “I can’t” any disappointment was met with skepticism and distain with the “reminder to get out there and try again.” It would become part of my character and molded my outlook on life.

NEVER take “no” for an answer.

When I was young and wanted to be an actress, I would attend casting calls, hoping to get the coveted ‘call back’ to read again. Never a leading lady, I was typically asked to read the part as the quirky friend, the girl next door, or some other non-descript character.

But most of the time, I was rejected.

It helped me to develop a tough outer layer, as well as a protective secondary skin. There wasn’t anything you could say to me that would make me burst into tears, and I began to think that maybe my tear ducts had dried up all together.

So traveling into other career venues was not that worrisome at all. I’ve written tongue in cheek as to the variety of positions I’ve held in the past, some eliminated due to down sizing, some because I moved on. There were a few non-consequential in between jobs that had us parting ways, the total rejection of my very existence upon their property.

I’ve been semi successful at comedy, telling jokes unique to me and expressing my sense of humor. More of an experiment than a career move, I don’t know what is worse – total rejection or a ho-hum response. It’s one more thing to cross off my bucket list.

No matter. As the years flew by, I kept plugging along, trying on this job and that, like a pair of shoes in a gallery. Never really finding the right fit or style, I walked a few miles before they were removed, as they felt too tight, pinched my toes or made me too tall for my own internal balance.

Luckily for me, I tripped into writing. Admittedly, I am still sharpening my heels as well as the pencils.

In the beginning I wrote all the time, in journals, in diaries, on napkins and scraps of paper found in the bottom of my purse. My life was an open book to anyone who cared to read the words I so readily shared. I told story after story, I jotted poems and threw them against the wall to see what would stick. My books sell, but not yet to the extent of ending up on a bestseller list. I try not to think of them as rejections because I’m not finished, not yet having kicked off the heels.

My life has been a succession of the definite maybe, a cornucopia of we’ll see and try again later. I often wonder if this is how my demise will play out. The Angel of Death will hover beside me and I will be ready with a snarky response to the ultimate rejection of this life into the next.

I will continue to search for the perfect shoe, to try on the ones that won’t chafe and remind me never to waste the time I have left. I guess I wouldn’t recognize success any other way.