Rejection: It's What I Eat For Breakfast

Growing up in my community was safe, to say the least. I'm talking bubble boy, wrapped in cotton, surrounded by safety nets safe. So when the "real world" just happened one day and I was unwrapped and thrown onto the hard ground without a safety net in sight, I was a tad bit ill-prepared.

It seems the first thing that occurred after the initial shock and awe of being exposed to the sights, sounds and terrible smells outside of my bubble was the rejection. So much rejection. It was everywhere. When I opened the mailbox: rejection. When I clicked through my e-mail: rejection. When I answered my phone: rejection. And least shocking of all, when I made eyes at the boy across the bar: you guessed it... cold, hard rejection. It was the new norm. It took me about a month to realize that experiencing your twenties and hearing the words, "no," "sorry, but" and "we went with another..." go hand in hand.

I know I said that I grew up in a safe place (remember bubble boy), but I also grew up lucky. My mom used to call me Midas. I had that Midas touch that everyone around me wanted, and was no doubt confused about. I'm no brainiac, but the grades came easy. I'm the farthest thing from a star athlete, but I made every team I went out for. My biggest Midas achievement was born out of a serious lack of effort and a lot of wasted time when I unbelievably was accepted to my first-choice college. The golden touch followed me throughout my time at school, and I figured this was just the way it was. I was lucky, and everything I touched would, metaphorically, of course, turn to gold.

When things go your way for a very long time, it is a slap in the face when they don't. Actually, it is more like running face first into a glass door when everyone you know and love is waiting for you on the other side, but I guess that's going overboard. Simply put, use whatever analogy you want, it stinks.

So what does one do when it looks like he or she is about to be picked dead last in the adult game of kickball we call life? Well, I did what every twenty-something should get used to doing as soon as possible, I lowered my expectations. It's basic math, really, as you grow older, your expectations grow smaller. When you're 25 this means taking the first job that is offered and possibly working there for 26 more months than you had planned -- and accepting it. When you're 45 it means, for most women who have experienced the, um, magic of child birth, that laughing, sneezing and most sudden movements will end in peeing your pants -- and accepting it. My generation has a lot to look forward to.

Life has handed me some lemons, and no I will not be making lemonade, but a vodka-infused lemony slushy drink that does the job. The job of the fancy beverage is to allow me, even for a short time, to forget all the rejection that has seemed to move in next door like a pesky neighbor. No matter how loud you make your television or what kind of ear plugs you buy, there is that constant drone next door reminding you that they are there to stay, possibly forever.

I might never get my Midas touch back, and the fact is that I think, eventually, I might be able to accept that fate. I just wish it could make a short-lived appearance from time to time. Hell, at this point, I'd be more than thrilled to turn into whatever mythical character turns things to bronze.