I deal with
rejection all the time. As a writer, it’s part of the process.
No.
No thank you.
Often, simply no
reply at all.
I get frustrated and
impatient, but it’s the constant yearning to be published that
keeps me going. That and perhaps the delusional belief that I’m
good enough. I shake off the latest slight—perhaps with an
indignant “How dare they!” to keep the fires lit—and type on.
Dating should be the
same. For the longest time though, it wasn’t. Every no, no thank
you and no reply felt deeply personal. Each one underscored all my
flaws. Big hair, bags under the eyes, pale skin, freaky elbows. (Yes.
My self-esteem was once so low that I wanted plastic surgery on my
elbows. Well, and on everything else, too. A “Queer Eye” makeover
would never suffice.) Picking myself apart focused on the physical.
After all, the personality feedback was consistent: nice guy, nice
guy, nice guy.
Too nice? Do men
really want nice? Even I can see that “nice” sounds bland. When
someone travels to Paris and comes back and says it was nice, you
know they hated it. Just not the croissant kind of homme, I guess.
You want “nice” in a neighbor; in a boyfriend, apparently not.
I do my best not to
attack my personality. Deep down, I know that’s more dangerous
territory than all the brain chatter about elbows and such. So, yeah,
let’s just say shook off the latest dating rejection—the
too-familiar “no chemistry” line—as soon as I read the text.
Really. An even better recovery than usual. That’s what a
life-or-death experience only an hour earlier will do.
I’d gone for a
bike ride despite the poor air quality that hung over Vancouver, a
reminder that forests were burning, rain wasn’t coming and, despite
what some lunk-headed politicians profess, global warming is
happening. No end in sight, a new reality, they say. I needed a break
from the gym and felt restless after spending the day fine-tuning and
sending off a couple of writing queries. (More rejection fodder?
We’ll see...)
It felt good to
pedal. I found myself cycling beyond Vancouver and following the
meandering bike lanes in one of the suburbs. New territory.
Unfamiliar ground makes me more alert. Heavy vehicular traffic
whizzing by to my left heightens the awareness even more. I refer to
it as mindfulness in motion. I have no choice to be in the moment.
Personal safety requires it.
But the mind strays
despite the best of intentions. The bike lane disappeared as I
approached an overpass and I had to cycle on the sidewalk. No
problem. Perhaps a nifty little variance in the journey. And then,
back in the bike lane, I looked ahead and noticed two concrete
barriers set in the lane, creating a narrow passageway between them.
It was wholly unexpected. At a slower speed and with a bit more
anticipation, I’d have ridden through without a glitch. For some
reason, my width perception caused an instant of panic and I had to
shift my hands from the upper part of the handlebar to the brakes. My
reaction time reduced, I pressed too hard, hit the left barrier with
the front tire and flew over the concrete slab onto the highway. In
that very moment, an SUV whizzed along in the same lane. The driver
had no time to honk or swerve.
I still don’t know
how I didn’t get run over. It defies any explanation. I bounced
back up, my left leg scratched up and bloodied, my lower back sending
pain signals and a bump growing under my helmet from whatever my head
hit. Light injuries. Nothing really. Just enough to confirm that,
yes, that really happened.
And so I cycled for
the next hour toward home, my bike moaning and groaning more than my
body. It wasn’t until I’d chained up my bike and stepped in my
condo that I broke down. A near-death experience. I washed up,
showered and then checked my messages.
Hello, “no
chemistry” text.
Easiest personal
rejection I’ve ever shaken off. Could’ve broken several body
parts, might’ve been paralyzed, should’ve died. And yet there I
was, standing in my kitchen getting the brush-off from a guy after
two dates I’d thought had gone well.
So what? I mean,
really. All the same, I’d like to pass on another life-or-death
encounter before the next rejection. Let me go back to the wallowing,
the self-pity and the elbow inspection in the bathroom mirror. All
messed up, for sure, but familiar terrain. Let my version of flirting
with disaster be dozens more dating rejections, let me continue to
repulse men with my niceness. It’s far better than disasters with
pedals.
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