FOCUSED INDIGNATION: DAMN SCAMS

It’s a political year, in the U.S., at least. That means daily overexposure to indignant rants and high-fives over personal insults directed to people with different points of view—nowadays, it seems there are only two, all black or white, no room for gray. (Pick a side, dammit. And stay there. For EVERYTHING.) I’m in Canada but the U.S. has always cast a heavy shadow. 

 

Alas, the personal attacks and the my-guy-can-do-nothing-wrong vs. your-guy’s-a-buffoon positioning has crossed over as certain Canadian “leaders” have noticed that stoking division gets followers fired up. The staid standards of the politics of yore led to disinterest by many citizens. Now it’s easy to be political, no depth of understanding required. Soundbites, spectacle, snappy chants and tweets require no more thought or action beyond clicking the like button, maybe retweeting if it’ll draw more likes to your own account. 

 

Good god. November is still so far away. 

 

I tell myself I stay on social media so I can show agents I have what’s called a “platform” to promote a book if and when anyone should finally deem my writing worthy. Partly because of the negativity that’s inescapable when I log on and partly because it’s one of those stereotypes of getting older, I feel a rush of indignation most days. I try as much as I can to steer away from that political version—it’s a packed arena already and I’ve found I feel better remaining several steps removed from it…informed when it seems important enough but content with making up my own mind and feeling no need to share. That used to be the Canadian way. No talk about religion or politics. The weather is variable enough to get through any unwanted banter in the grocery store line. Extolling the extreme tastiness of someone’s homemade dip or cherry pie suffices at a social gathering as long as I keep moving around and say my goodbyes early. (I’m good at early exits, usually sneaking away without those prolonged last bits of conversation.) 

 

Indignation offers distraction. The righteousness feels empowering. (Boy, I’m on a roll!) Being feisty is a welcome bit of counterprogramming to daily chillaxing to Netflix. (Do I really want to give Bridgerton another try? How many Queer Eye makeovers can I watch? I didn’t even shed a tear over the last two.) During COVID, my indignation focused on anti-maskers. It switched to the dudes who drove cars with loud mufflers and backfiring thingamajigs, making laps around my neighborhood every single day. I finally wrote a letter to the Vancouver Police Department—yeah, I’m that guy—and got a lengthy, empathic reply but no change. My Cranky Old Man badge probably got delivered to my last address. I didn’t pay to have things forwarded. Those fees! Now there’s a rant…

 

I’ve shifted once again. My ire is directed at scammers. They have no soul. Literally, in many cases due to the Invasion of Bots, always allegedly from one of several countries that is an indisputable nemesis. Or was. (Seriously, how is the plight of Ukraine cast aside and the power of Putin minimized or even lauded? This seems like side-taking just to be ornery but the stakes are too high. A country’s independence and freedom doesn’t seem to matter when you’re an attention-seeking politician from the state of Georgia.) 

 

Oops, politics. Sorry about that. 

 

Scammers. We can all agree they’re vile, can’t we? Shame! Shame on the people doing it or creating the bots to do the dirty work. 

 

As I type, I’m filled with righteous indignity. Damn, it feels good.

 

It used to be a tweet inviting me to click on a link to learn exactly what “nasty things” someone was saying about me. Honestly, I remember the first time, so long ago. I assumed it was homophobic. I worried it would leak to parents at my school, causing sidewalk protests and my rapid firing. Still, despite my panic spiral, I knew not to click. I’d learn about the “nasty things” once the people showed up with their signs and all the misspellings I’d be tempted to dash out and correct in red pen. (Did I just imply that homophobes are less intelligent or have spelling challenges at the very least? Sorry, not sorry.) 

 

I used to receive emails from African royalty, promising a considerable financial token of appreciation if I’d be so kind as to provide my bank info so the prince’s funds could be held in trust. Tempting but I waited for an irresistible extra enticement—an invitation for a stay at the palace. Never came. 

 

For starters, I'm not American...
(Always start with the easiest point.)

Then there were those invitations to join AARP. I couldn’t figure out the scam angle, but it was outrageous spam at the very least. It was spam, wasn’t it?

 

Scamming has become part of my daily life. To my knowledge, I’ve yet to be duped but the attempts are getting more specific, more nuanced. I’ve received texts notifying me about my accounts being frozen in every bank in Canada and a few American ones. Every so often, my actual financial institution comes up. I’m thinking about withdrawing my hundred dollars and stashing it under the mattress. Ha! Now try to dupe me.

 

I get alerts from phone providers and Netflix. I must respond immediately or have my accounts suspended. This, I think, would sever my ties with Queer Eye once and for all. No more guilt about those t-shirts with holes and stains or about not moisturizing in the morning. It could be freeing.

 

I supposedly have packages from UPS, Amazon and Canada Post deemed undeliverable. WHAT?! Did I online shop in my sleep? I can’t afford to be ordering things. That money under my mattress won’t cover it. If the package doesn’t arrive, I can get the charge removed on my credit card. 

 

Credit card companies are texting me, too. I really need to start taking Nyquil to put me out the whole night. 

 

I can’t answer the phone anymore. My mother is the only exception, of course. Soon, scammers will figure out how to access our phone contacts and use AI to impersonate friends and family who’ve landed in jail and need bail money wired to them. My octogenarian mother in jail? Shame on you, damn scammers.

 

The calls are usually in Chinese. The area codes vary. Sometimes—okay, full disclosure, always—I think it’s an agent calling me. He/She loves my manuscript. It’ll be a New York Times bestseller, an Oprah pick, there’s Pulitzer potential. I’m so tempted to answer. They’ll leave a message won’t they if it goes to voicemail? They won’t be miffed just because I’m screening. We have to do that nowadays. If it’s sure to be an Oprah pick, I’ll call right back. Even if it all sounds like a bot scam. 

 

Oprah! 

 

I think I’ve just identified a new potential scam targeting everyone who identifies as a writer on Twitter. Don’t trace it back to this post. I’m not the one who programmed the bot.

 

The fact they stole my purely hypothetical ideas makes me even more indignant.

 

 

 

NEXT UP: How scamming is affecting my “dating” life…

  

A BURDEN ON THE HEALTHCARE SYSTEM

A change of pace for this blog post. I have written plenty lately from a woe-is-me perspective over having been dumped after a two-year relationship. Still going to focus on woe, only this time the setting is a health clinic and the circumstances humorous, at least to me. I'm not going to seek quotes from the professionals who had to experience my quirky trauma. It should be a relief that patients going to clinics don’t get reviewed on Yelp. 

 

 

I had to get a blood test as part of a standard procedure. But before getting that done, I started experiencing a spike in my eating disorder behaviors and decided I needed to access services and supports. I had been out of programming since 2019, so I needed a new referral from my doctor. This included another blood test along with an ECG.

 

Not gonna lie...even Googling
photos for this post proved 
challenging. So sad, I know!

One blood test, maybe two. The woe begins…

 

I have a fear of needles. It doesn't make sense, even to me, but isn't that the nature of phobias? We can't explain them. We struggle to overcome them. Usually, we don't. We cope through avoidance and crossing our fingers the phobia doesn't come up much. 

 

If I had arachibutyrophobia (fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth), I would pass on any immersion therapy and forgo PBJ sandwiches. Not much of a sacrifice. Any inclination to enjoy the taste wouldn’t match the fear and the public spectacle of squirming and screaming with a mouthful of Jif while seated in a cafeteria. Taphophobia is the fear of being buried alive. It might mean doing away with that shovel in the garage (bury it?). Hire a gardener and plan to be off site when they show up. Mageirocophobia is the fear of cooking. So eat sandwiches…but maybe avoid that PBJ if it’s an issue.

 

If I could avoid needles, I would be ecstatic. Is there a medical researcher working on how to X-ray blood? I’ll opt for the oral version of every vaccine. 

 

I live in a sketchy area and I’ve seen many people sprawled on the sidewalk, shooting up. I do my best to look away, but I’ve witnessed plenty. This is as close as I’ll ever get to exposure therapy. It hasn’t made blood tests and dental freezings any easier for me…or for the poor soul tasked with stabbing me.

 

I put off the first blood test for eleven days after contacting my doctor’s office and explaining that I needed the requisitions for both procedures to be done at once, with only one stabbing. 

 

I showed up at the clinic when it opened. Already, ten people were in line in front of me. Great, I thought. This would mean I would have to take a seat and wait, the whole time obsessing over what was to come. I suspect the others who showed up early had to get to work or wanted to get the blood work over with since many of them had fasted and probably wanted a Boston cream and an apple fritter from Tim Hortons afterwards. No food reward dangled as a carrot for me. With my anorexia in high gear, food restriction would not be compromised. In fact, I worried more than usual, knowing there was a greater possibility of fainting since my fasting had far exceeded what was required.

 

The requisition forms for my blood work were supposed to have been emailed to the clinic, but only the more recent one showed up in their system. Thus, I had to search through my emails and access a medical portal to find the other requisition. It took six attempts for me to send the document before they had something that could be opened. In the meantime, I fell further behind in the queue. It's true that the e-mail conundrum served as a distraction, but it also triggered a desire to flee the building and try again some other day far, far down the line. 

 

Maybe I could do without the referral I thought I needed so much. A fear of needles—trypanophobia—has real consequences. Why couldn't I just be afraid of using my oven? I could munch on salads whenever I finally nurtured an urge to eat. A quick Google offered nothing for “fear of E. coli.” I think I could take my chances.

 

I used to have to lie down for
blood tests. I tell myself this
is progress. 

The real fun began when my name was called and I was instructed to go to Room 3. It was an actual room as opposed to Rooms 1 and 2, each of which was nothing more than a cubicle. Room 3 even had a door. As the clinic was very small, I could hear everything said within Rooms 1 and 2 during the wait. Presumably other people waiting would be able to hear me in Room 3 if the door wasn't shut. If I persuaded the practitioner to shut it, I could wail and whimper away. If it stayed open, maybe I’d behave, fearing the snickers among people in the waiting area.

 

I recognized the male nurse from the last time I had to get blood drawn back in August or September of last year. I realize these nurses stab dozens, perhaps hundreds, of patients every day, but it still stunned me that he didn't seem to remember me. I am exceptionally memorable in medical spaces.

 

The door stayed open. Okay, self. Behave.

 

The global crisis may have
passed. Now, it's just me!

I did my normal thing where I stare at the linoleum floor, always a dull white in these settings. I know that, if I glance to my left or to my right, I will see needles, vials and other medical equipment that could put me in a panic. I explained to the nurse that I am afraid of needles and blurted my usual refrain, “I'm sorry that you have to deal with me. Thank you, in advance.”

 

He laughed which is a typical reaction from whoever is tasked to stab me. He probably nodded as well, not that I made eye contact. Yeah, yeah... No big deal. Many people are afraid of needles. Poor guy didn’t know what he was in for. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. 

 

“I may yammer on about nothing in particular,” I said. “You don’t have to listen.” (How many people in the waiting room were listening?) He laughed again. This is good. Usually, nurses are amused by me. I’m terrified but manage to convey I know how ridiculous I am. 

 

My right arm assumed the position on the armrest, as ready as it could be. I made a fist; he told me not to. He kept moving my arm, extending, a little this way, a little that. “Relax,” he said. 

 

Why do they always say that? People are NOT relaxed when confronted with a phobia. 

 

“Make a fist,” he said. It was confusing. Hadn’t I already done that? I did it again, but I wondered if he was talking to himself, patience lost. Then he alarmed me. “It’s hard to find a vein.” 

 

Whaaaaat?

 

This was a first. My anxiety went into another gear. 

 

“Let’s try your left arm.” I tensed up, I made noises. Muffled? Were the people in the waiting room entertained? 

 

I’ve never had blood drawn from the left. Always the right. I’m left-handed. I always get it in my head that my stabbed arm might be out of commission for the rest of the day. It’s not like I had a big assignment lined up that required handwriting, but I didn’t want my left arm to be vulnerable if something should happen. What? I don’t know. Don’t expect me to come up with a rational explanation. This is a phobia, remember?

 

He asked, “Are you taking any medications?” I named one, then struggled to remember the other. It wasn’t what he needed. He helped me along: “Heart medications or what?”

 

“For depression,” I said. “And anxiety.” It made me laugh. “I guess you knew that.” He laughed, too. 

 

“The right arm, please,” I said. He tied the rubber band tighter, I made a fist. 

 

“Tell me 1, 2, 3 before you do it,” I said. (My dentist tried the SURPRISE approach once. That did not go well!)

 

“Sure, sure.” 

 

The countdown.

 

The poke. 

 

Really, that’s all it was. That’s all it ever is. I know this. It’s never ever as bad as I think. It’s not worth the anxiety I feel or the agony I put the nurse through. But phobias will be phobias.

 

He said, “Oh, dear.” 

 

What?! 

 

Just finish, cover the wound—yes, “wound”—with a cotton ball and tell me to press.

 

But no. “I’m not getting much,” he said. The extraction took longer than ever before. I kept still. I gritted my teeth. I closed my eyes. Please, vein. Give it up! Be a geyser. (If it keeps gushing after the needle is withdrawn, I’ll deal with it. I can always faint. The chair has arms. I won’t crash to the floor like that time or that other time.) 

 

I couldn’t message my vein to behave. I heard, “It’s…not…enough.” I got to press cotton but this was not the end of the ordeal. 

 

“I have to try the other arm.”

 

I cried. Seriously. Tears. No wailing but my face was wet. I covered my eyes. It didn’t cover my shame.

 

I told myself it wasn’t just about this faulty vein of mine. I’m going through a lot right now. For weeks, I’d been wondering when I would cry. Anxiety notwithstanding, I didn’t expect it to be in a blood clinic.

 

“Let’s stop,” I said. “I can’t do this. I’ll come back tomorrow.” (Or never.) I finally made eye contact. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for trying. You’re very good. I’ve taken too much time. People are waiting. I just can’t.”

 

“Really?” he said. No sarcasm. No mocking. He looked let down. My anxiety may have been out of control, but I couldn’t stand to think I made him feel like he’d failed. “Did you drink any water?” he asked. 

 

No. I didn’t think I was allowed to. “That helps with the vein.” That didn’t make any sense to me, but I wasn’t going to go home and Google it. I once fainted onto my laptop while researching injuries for a character in a novel I was writing. 

 

I surrendered the left arm. If things went terribly wrong, I could learn to sign things right-handed. Chicken scratch…like a doctor. Ironic.

 

Another poke. Another excruciatingly long time. Slo-mo blood withdrawal. Finally, I got to press cotton, that gesture that conveys to me, It’s all over. You did it. Not pretty but your walk of shame exiting this place is moments away. My little round bandages made things look balanced. As far as my personality…not so much.

 

I still had to do the ECG. Piece of cake. Shirt off, lie down, a bunch of sticky things applied to my chest and midriff, a cable placed on each sticky spot. (Still, I didn’t look.) I could do dozens of ECGs. Like that’s a badge of honor. 

 

He stepped out, flicked a switch or something, then looked at the results on a what I presume was a monitor. Not looking. This room still has needles, vials and whatnot, possibly all over the place. (I once fainted after seeing a poster of a diagram of an ear during a hearing test. Yes…very sad.)

 

“Oh, dear,” he said again.

 

What. The. Hell?!

 

He said the numerical result aloud. “Does your doctor know you have a very low heart rate?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“With a result like this, I’m supposed to call your doctor.”

 

What? Call?! Why not just email the result? Text message maybe. “Why?”

 

“Your result is critical. I’m supposed to make you stay while I get in touch with your doctor. Then you have to be transported to the hospital.”

 

Nope. Not happening! Let me just do my walk of shame.

 

“He knows,” I said with conviction. You’re just very fit, my doctor has told me. That was his same response when I told him I thought I had an eating disorder twenty-nine years ago. Should I trust him? I don’t know, but I did know I was not going in an ambulance. I was not going to ER. I just got stabbed…twice! I could not start fretting about my heart giving out now. 

 

Whenever I’ve been in the hospital, nurses always freak out about my heart rate. I see it on their faces. I’ve had cardiologists visit me in the psych ward and on the eating disorder ward. I get another ECG and the doctor eyes me up and down, stoically. I imagine him thinking, He looks to be alive. He exits. 

 

I’m a medical marvel…in a number of ways.

 

Nope! No sticker for me.

“It’s fine,” I said. This poor nurse had been through enough with me. He was only seventy minutes into his shift. Long day…

 

I’m still alive. Didn’t sleep well. Sudden worries about my ticker. I’ve been meaning to get a referral to a cardiologist. I don’t have any phobias about my heart. Not yet, at least.

THE BIG SEND-OFF

As I stepped into the hallway, a small package toppled after resting against my door. First assumption: delivered to wrong unit. I don’t order things. I don’t have an insatiable need for more stuff. I picked it up, stepped back in my condo and saw my name and address slapped on the front. Second assumption: shirts. I had, in fact, strayed from “I don’t order things” last week—it’s not a hard rule—and bought two Japanese-style linen shirts online. I may have gotten a little too caught in Vancouver’s cherry blossom season. It was a rash purchase that had me fretting over cultural appropriation. Nothing like Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku Girls

period but, if I wore one of the shirts in public, would I be shamed, spat on and told to stick to tartan tam-o’-shanters and kilts? The Vancouver Japanese Hall National Historic Site is two blocks from me. Risky buy. 

 

“I don’t order things” should become a harder rule. 

 

It was a very small package. How could one shirt, much less two, fit? Being linen, they’d be wrinkled messes. Cultural appropriation karma: a dry cleaning bill preceding the pending shaming/spitting incident. One shirt at most. Let guilt build as I awaited the arrival of my second violation.

 

I opened. No shirt(s). A white envelope, familiar penmanship. Oh, yes. The keys to my place. Six weeks after my ex dumped me, I got them back. Giving them to him as I moved into this condo had been a big deal. I even took a picture at the time. (Not going to scroll back to find that now.) Getting them back is most definitely not a photo op.

 

Breakups are awkward. Dilemmas pop up. How badly do you want that hair dryer back? Or that pricey salon pomade? There’s that fun pair of Chuck Taylors but the soles were showing wear and tear, right? When the ex’s place is across town, it comes down to arranging a half hour some Saturday afternoon and asking that he not be there. No drama, which is in itself dramatic. He can’t even look at me?! 

 

It's trickier when the breakup involves two people living in different cities, even different countries. In this instance, however, the property retrieval, like the breakup itself, was one-sided. I didn’t have shoes or hair product or even a bottle of Stumptown cold brew coffee that required a list of pros and cons about bothering to get them back. As much as the breakup TOTALLY SUCKED[1], it was convenient that my ex had just moved from Seattle to Denver and I’d cleared everything that was mine from his Seattle apartment. I’d figured I’d gradually add new objects to the Denver closet he kept saying he’d set aside for me. All his now. 

 

But he’d still had a number of items in my Vancouver condo. I wasn’t quick to return them. It wasn’t that I was trying to be mean, holding his road bike or hiking boots hostage. For a while, I couldn’t face the task. Even in the best of times, I’m terrible about this kind of thing. I procrastinate. My self-doubt is a core personality trait. My reflex response to any such minor chore is that I won’t do it right. That expression, “he can’t find his way out of a wet paper bag”? It came from people who know me. Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Brian and Sue and Ali and that other ex and the ex before that. I automatically think I’ll buy the wrong sized box, the wrong kind of tape and maybe even make a transcription error in writing the street address. I’ll swear I sent the parcel, my ex will say nothing but tell all his friends I’m a vindictive liar and then eighteen months later he’ll pass a guy who lives three blocks away wearing his hiking boots. Same shoe size…uncanny. 

 

But the first weeks of delay were about denial rather than doubt. That whole dumping drama was accidental. Low blood sugar. A wonky adjustment to Colorado’s higher altitudes. Too much reading about conspiracy theories and wrongfully concluding I was directly involved in the demise of Ricky Martin’s career. (As if “She Bangs” wasn’t the obvious undoing.) It feels more embarrassing with each passing week, but I honestly thought we’d get back together. Like Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello. (Bad example.) Like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. (Another bad example.) Like Bert and Ernie. (Let’s just say they had a trial separation and the Sesame Street Workshop crew kicked into high gear keeping it under wraps. Just wait for Big Bird’s memoir, forthcoming 2026.)

 

Nope. The remorseful what-have-I-done call from my ex never came. No delivery of several dozen roses to take up all my counter space. Not even a text with a “Hey” and a smiley face emoji. Instead of shared bathtub adventures with Ernie and his rubber duckie, I was still a discard, my Muppet place coming closer to Oscar the Grouch’s abode.

 

I can’t explain why I couldn’t send everything all at once. Was it too many items of different sizes that overwhelmed me? Or was it the significance of sending off the parts of him I’d loved having in my home, the reminder of him while we were apart? I’m far too sentimental.

 

The first package was a shoebox. A piece of pottery was the main item. I used clothes and biking gloves to protect it from breaking. Smart packing, I thought. No wastage in buying bubble wrap or other packing materials. I worried about the pot. I had to prove I could do it right. It had to arrive unbroken. To minimize problems, I drove across the border and mailed it from Blaine, Washington so customs officials wouldn’t open up the box and then send it on with the pot less protected. 

 

The little trip was a hassle. A chunk of my day lost, worsened by an uncomfortable exchange with an American border agent who said I wasn’t supposed to be transporting somebody else’s belongings across an international border. When I blurted, “It’s my ex’s stuff. He dumped me on Valentine’s Day,” Mr. Tough Guy took pity, waving me through with a verbal warning, a silver star of sorts awarded for being pathetic. 

 

It didn’t even bother me that I had to highlight my rejection to a stranger in uniform. I’d already gone through a lot from how things ended. A good friend of mine, the epitome of Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky, was incensed with me. “Why are you doing anything? Why aren’t you chucking it all? You owe him nothing!” 

 

I quoted Michelle Obama: “When they go low, we go high.” And, sure enough, as I walked out of that post office, first parcel out of my hands, I felt elated. He got rid of me; I had to unload what I still had of him. I was doing it right, but I was also helping myself, feeling power, relief and the tiniest bit of accomplishment. 

 

I still needed a bigger box for bigger possessions plus a bike box for his road bike that had become a menacing reminder of a love lost, still propped against my fireplace as it had been for most of our relationship. The first box was easy. I bought one that turned out to be larger than needed and then searched for extra items to stuff in it. When it arrived, my ex reacted to the fact I’d included his half-used bar of soap. Like I’d been petty. It’s possible. But, really, if he knew me at all in our two years together, he’d know I don’t throw anything away. Not soap, not coffee grounds (compostable), not a relationship.

 

Oops, did I go low in that last sentence? Truth!

 

The bike box took more effort. I Googled it, came upon dead ends. The box store had nothing but sent me to a U-Haul center on the other side of Vancouver. Nothing there either. I finally came upon the bike box at the UPS store where I mailed the second box. (No driving back over the border to send things. No more dealing with customs officers. My level of care had dropped. It would get there or not.) The bike box wouldn’t fit into my Mini Cooper so I decided I’d return after Canada’s four-day long weekend for Easter, pack the box while in the store and be done with it. 

 

Didn’t happen. As luck would have it, my ex’s best friend was in Vancouver for some sort of gay Easter parties which I had no clue about. He came by and we loaded the bike in the back of his SUV, Seattle-bound. If or how it gets to Denver is not my concern. I can see my fireplace again. (Admittedly, it looks underwhelming.)

 

And now the returning of possessions is complete. There’s still an oversized lamp of his in my living room that I have no use for. I never turn it on. It fills an empty space atop my hutch. It can stay for now. Tonight I’ll clear his things from the fridge and chuck the alcohol I will never drink from a cupboard by the sink. His new Denver home never had any trace of me. I walked in it, right after being dumped, and he weirdly gave me a tour that I had zero interest in and can’t explain any more than the breakup itself. So technically my presence was there for ten minutes, easily aired out by an open window. 

 

Lamp excepted, his possessions are gone from my condo. The harder part is that the memories are everywhere. He was with me as we furnished much of the space. (It was much appreciated to have a designer’s input!) Maybe I’ll buy that green chair from a warehouse he took me to in Seattle. I loved it. “It’s fun!” I said. 

 

“Furniture isn’t supposed to be fun,” he replied.

 

So he says. It’s time to define fun for myself again.

 

 

---

[1] I refrain from writing anything in all caps. It’s too Trumpian and, basically, too much. It’s a slippery slope from all caps to overusing exclamation marks and then—gasp—typing multiple exclamation marks in succession. By waiting two or three years since the last time I typed anything other than a title in all caps, it underscores how much the breakup, in fact, TOTALLY SUCKED. Click here if you want the backstory.  

PRESSING PAUSE

I’m a rejection warrior. How many coffee dates have I gone on that ended with, “Nice to meet you,” “Let’s do this again,” and then nothing? 

 

He got hit by a bus. 

 

Abducted and dumped in the Amazonian jungle.

 

Boyfriend announced their open relationship wasn’t working for him.

 

Shit happens. Maybe Matt Bomer messaged him. Not everything is about me. 

 

But, sigh, sometimes it is. That crooked tooth I have. Maybe it was the flowery Converse shoes. Did I blurt I was a vegetarian? 

 

Okay, so a guy passed. And another. And a hundred others. Have I passed two hundred yet? The numbers get even more depressing when the thought pops in my head that My Guy is one in a million. How can I even schedule 999,800 more coffee dates? That crooked tooth of mine—and all its companions—will be woefully yellow by then. Mr. Million might pass, too.

 

My rejections aren’t limited to dating. I have this crazy dream I will get a book published. A New York Timesbestseller. Oprah rhapsodizes about it. Reese features it as a book club pick. Giller Prize. Booker. Pulitzer. Movie deal. I write the screenplay. Spielberg and the studio say, “Love it! Don’t change a thing.” And the Oscar goes to…

 

Dream big, right?

 

I’ve sent query letters to countless agents and editors. The response has been unanimous: No. 

 

Generally speaking, all this rejection has strengthened me. I’m adept at shrugging off a bad date. I’m quick to update my submissions spreadsheet and move on after the latest form rejection for my manuscript. Even when a date seems to sparkle or an agent reads like a perfect match, I limit wallowing when they “pull a Lucy,” yanking the elusive football away, cementing my Charlie Brown status: ever hopeful, ever duped. 

 

Rejected again. There will be (many) more instances to come. Life is meant to humiliate. Or, wait…I think it’s supposed to keep us humble. I’ve just exceeded expectations. 

 

Rejection ace. It’s listed as a skill on my LinkedIn profile.

 

But my skill weakened when a first date led to another and another and warped into a two-year relationship. It ended. I had a closure call. I’ve waited for the guy to come to his senses and beg me to have him back with some irresistible speech like Billy Crystal’s in When Harry Met Sally or whatever Ben Affleck said to JLo. 

 

Hasn’t happened. Won’t happen. Apparently, the guy’s still doing his happy dance. Fitter than ever with a marathon like that.

 

REJECTED.

 

No mistake.

 

All righty then. I know the drill. Shake, shrug, play Adele, summon my inner Wile E. Coyote, resurrected after umpteen catastrophes involving falling anvils and mistimed dynamite explosions.  

 

I moved on. I got on four dating profiles. I fled to Venice Beach. I bought new shirts. (Maybe too many.) 

 

And then I had a coffee date. 

 

“Nice to meet you.”

 

“Let’s do this again.”

 

We actually meant it! We showed up again. And again. Four dates in eight days.

 

On paper, I could check all the boxes. Every. Single. One. 

 

Mr. Million, is that you?

 

He invited me for a homemade dinner. Makes everything from scratch, all of it vegetarian. I messaged him: “Hey. Can we have a FaceTime?”

 

I put my foot on the brakes. Didn’t end it per se. Officially, I pressed pause. 

 

Five days earlier, he’d asked, “Is it too soon?”

 

I answered honestly: “I don’t know.” 

 

It’s become a cliché that the person you date after being dumped is Transition Guy. He provides a much-needed dose of affirmation, he helps you see the value of shaving and showering again, he proves that the text-message function on your iPhone still works. These are very good things. But he can’t actually become something more, right? Not even with all those checked boxes.

 

I told myself I didn’t need a Transition Guy. I would bypass that and proceed to the next relationship. Something significant. Something with so much potential. After all, I had never wanted OUT of a relationship. My entire being had been invested. 

 

Alas, this was not a case of pulling a simple switcheroo. Like second Steven Carrington on Dynasty. Or second Fallon on Dynasty. I may have even preferred Sammy Hagar to David Lee Roth in Van Halen. But it says something that I’m having to dig up Van Halen. 

 

It was a belated answer but, yes, I’d realized it was indeed too soon. As nice as New Guy was and as wonderful as it felt to be wanted, I couldn’t jump into this new something. “If we proceed with this right now,” I said, “it won’t last. I will mess it up and I don’t want to do that. I like you. I want there to be a chance. I need a month.”  

 

Lovely man that he is, he didn’t mark anything in his calendar. A month-ish. 

 

It upsets me that getting dumped has caused residual damage. I want to be past it. I want to set that two-year commitment aside. Shove it in a drawer, block it, conduct some little ceremony involving screaming in the woods or tossing items in a dumpster or boiling water in a pot, a stand-in for a cauldron, and making up hocus-pocus jargon as I toss items in. No eyes of newts or live crickets. Horrors! My first vision is oatmeal. 

 

Witches would reject me, too.  

 

A budding relationship now would be mired in unfair comparisons, sabotaged by lingering questions about my unworthiness and muted by inability to process what I did wrong and the depression I feel lurking, eager to step right up and consume me.

 

Will a month make a difference? A month-ish? Despite a résumé chock full of rejection and commendable resilience, I can’t seem to draw from all that experience. 

 

Not yet, dammit.