Rejected—But Just Normally

You have to stop and ask yourself: what’s the worst that could happen?

And let’s be real, more often than not, some variation of that worst thing ends up coming to pass. No matter how much you think about it, pray about it, scream or say about it. It’ll come, all the same. But is it always such a bad thing? What if there’s some ribbons of redemption in every worst thing that comes to pass? Now and then, I wrap up these silk strands, so wished to be avoided, and I tie myself tight in them, breathing in their essence—their value.

I’d been going on long walks every day, trying to meet my goal of six-thousand steps, or roughly three miles. Every day, picking some random place, then milling about down parking lots, sidewalks, side streets with no walking paths, grass lawns, and dirt berms. Always picking my way down them, like a marathon track runner mounting the occasional hurdle in slow motion. And that’s the other half of it—walking to work through the problem. Freeing up my ears, my eyes, my mind from the influence of other people, and just stewing in my own thoughts. Soaking it all up till my brain’s wrinkled like my fingers when I’ve been in the tub too long. That’s the other half, outside the physical goal of maintaining fitness. To have some time to think. Walking drags the physical embodiment of pushing through your thoughts, like a metaphor born into real life in real time—another step onward and another thought run through. So I was walking, picking and kicking rocks, flinging one subject into another, and I always have time to remember just how rejected I am, normally.

One girl after another, so it goes. If you’ve read Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, you know so it goes. And these girls were always going. And so was I. It’s used in Kurt’s book whenever someone or something goes to die, doing the deed of losing life. One girl after another, so it goes. These girls aren’t dying, but the idea of any kind of connection sure is. That’s what’s always going, going, till it’s all gone in just a few days, words, texts, moments—said now and forgotten, because everyone’s always so busy. Reaching out and resting in the palm of my silly little hand is an attempt at a relationship—not necessarily the kind that ends with love and all that—but the kind where two people get to know one another, and they laugh and connect and become friends. They share a meme, a beer, a written poem. They go swing in hammocks on a hilltop, they bob their heads at concerts, they drink beers on the weekend and stumble outside the pub and smoke a social cigarette. Those kinds of friends. And sure, maybe most of my attempts to hold out my silly little hand are towards women—but can you blame me? I’m 27 and would prefer a life with love and kids and the normal American charcuterie board of things. But that hand is silly, more often than not. Like I said, just how rejected I am, normally.

Normally. Rejection is that: normal. I’ve spent years snorting that supply, trying to find where the high of being told no really leads. I’ve heard for some it makes them bitter, angry, resentful. Pitiful. Diseased and wretched. Repulsed at the idea of putting something on the line, as if being told ‘no’ is just too much for a glass-vase ego. But those, too, are disgusting emotions, leaving you to rot in your own mess, inevitably. So what’s the point in them, in giving up? Some people rise and say that all women are the same, they say all men are the same, they reject the whole charade and give into baser instincts and binge-eat ice cream on Tuesday nights and just hate the shit out of anything walking on two legs with genitals between ‘em. And when has being the victim ever landed us anywhere? It’s one step forward, eight steps back. So I throw that notion into the wind, leave it for someone else to pick at like a crusty scab.

But time and time again, I put out that silly little hand, and nothing but dust and the wind blows across my palm. I get no replies, no desire from anyone to set up hang-outs, no commitment to activity. Just the crickets. I get broken conversations, interactions that remind me of the lost and found bin at my elementary school two decades ago. Picked over, with a left-hand snow glove, a ratty scarf, and someone’s bent-out-of-shape glasses and it’s spring-going-on-summer. It’s all wrong and just pieces of something that never makes a full picture. More often than not, just the bottom corner. And living life in the bottom corner really slugs away at your confidence sometimes. I didn’t even know it.

All these people looking at my silly little hand have established lives, established groups, people they call their own, a vibe they’re chest-deep in, hard like concrete. So I can’t fully blame them. I understand. Even if I don’t love it, don’t agree with existing solely in the routines of life, afraid of change. But it is what it is, and time and time again, I get dust and wind. So it goes.

And then I was picking down the sidewalk, doing my walk, getting my steps, putting some mileage on my mind. There’s this girl, the one who sits at the receptionist counter at a place I frequent. I’ve seen her a dozen times, chatted with her, smiled, called her by her name—all the subtle things you do when you think so-and-so is cute. And I’m shuffling down the sidewalk and the door inside her work is right ahead, and I get a thought. Why not ask her to dinner? Why not shoot the shot and see where it lands? I stop and lean against a brick pillar and give myself a minute to out-think another opportunity for my palm to come up windy and dusty. I tell myself that she’s one step up and out of my league, I’m not confident enough. She’s probably married, probably got a boyfriend, probably already goes home to someone, hangs in hammocks and goes on hikes and shares little wisdoms and secrets with someone. Surely. I run my thumbs around on another, and try my best to self-defeat.

But then I ask myself: what’s the worst that could happen? And I open the door and walk inside and stride right up to her.

“I was just on a walk, passing by, and I figured I’d come in. I know this is totally a shot in the dark, but would you wanna have dinner with me sometime?” I blurt it out and smile big and can’t believe it, but the palm’s out again.

“Oh! No, I’m sorry, I have a boyfriend. That’s so sweet though!” she replies with an equally cheesy smile and her eyes smile too, behind her glasses.

I take a step backward toward the door, keeping my body square to her, “That’s alright, it was worth a shot! I’ll see you around then?” I say with unfounded vigor. It’s okay.

“Of course! See ya later!” she chimes back. I swing open the door and slip back outside into the muggy, hot afternoon air.

I get back into my walk. I’m not mad. No pity, no anger, no frustration. Not an ounce of regret, no woe-is-me. And I look at my palm and it’s dusty and windy, but I don’t hate it. In fact, I walk with pep, and realize that I’m energized, I’m exuberant, I’m ready to go nine rounds in the ring, I could run a marathon. I’m out of my fucking mind, in the best way. I feel like my eyes are a little dilated, like my bloods flowing a little hotter and healthier. I loved her saying no, right to me. It was the worst thing that could have happened. Realistically. But I did it, and I found some of those ribbons of redemption, those ribbons that unpack into bolstered confidence, and I tugged on ‘em and found something in there that hadn’t stirred in a while. I went for it and the worst thing happened and it wasn’t all that bad. It sure wasn’t all that bad.

My confidence is a muscle that hadn’t been used in too long and it was starting to atrophy and whither and I was letting it. But just then, just off the humid sidewalk, in a lobby with a receptionist, I found a way to work it out, exercise the muscle and remember what it’s like to go for it. And it wasn’t all that bad.