whooooosh went the wind. then it went away.

A flurry of emails through Wednesday afternoon.

Excitement (mine) at the prospect of actually writing for a living, a FT job with benefits! {Last time I had those: 2002-04}

On her end, urgency bleeds through her emails. It’s palpable. They’re expanding. Need to hire two writers ASAP — but the right people, says the editor. She’s making one offer, possibly two, by end of week (Friday-yesterday).

Last contact from her: 10:22 p.m. Wednesday. Asking: Do you have a trip to the Valley planned? (valley = metro Phoenix).

I don’t. But I don’t say that. I write that I can be there Friday. {Remember, it’s now late Wednesday night; I can be there in like 36 hours}. Or Sunday. Monday.

I don’t hear back. Hmmmmm.

Next day, Thursday, I resend with an update. I can be there tomorrow. Or Sunday. Or any day except Tuesday next week.

Still nothing.

She’s the editor. A very busy woman. In the throes of interviewing and hiring. Undoubtedly swamped with emails.

I resend my availability with a different subject line (Valley Visit) to catch her attention in that plethora of emails. To let her know I’m available to travel to Phoenix {about a 3-hour drive, easily more depending on traffic} and interview at her earliest convenience.

Nothing.

My excitement crescendoes, then crashes onto the shore like an enormous wave.

She’s not responding. Despite my eager position poised at the starting block, ready for the race, for the starting gun to fire … I hear nothing. Except “False start. Everybody go home.”

My head hangs in disappointment. Disappointment I know all too well.

When will I catch a break? When will life work for rather than against me? Why is it that no matter what I do that’s right, ardent, sincere, genuine efforts, the party leaves the room.  I’m left standing in the room alone. Holding the bag, metaphorically. Asking myself what’s so wrong with me that I can’t get ahead.

It’s unfortunate I don’t have the alcoholic genes, I’ve mused often. Now would be a good time to feed those genes.

That’s where it’s at today, Saturday, August 13.

A rush of tremendous excitement: gone flat
Joy: fleeting
Dreaming of better in work, money, establishing a life foundation: pffffffffft, pinprick to a balloon

Doesn’t mean she won’t call one day. Doesn’t mean that media company won’t find itself needing a new writer if expansion continues.

Doesn’t mean I’ll quit looking for a writing or radio job in my state.

Doesn’t mean that I’m gonna die washing dishes for roughly minimum wage. Referencing a local job offer that I’ve gotta take now that the Phoenix writing position’s off the table.

I wanted so much better when I was younger. I want so much better, now especially, at 59, I roll into the so-called golden years, woefully unprepared for retirement or end of life.

I might well end up that 70-year-old lady behind the cash register at Taco Bell! Taco Bell, Walmart too, hire a lot of seniors — fantastic!

Funny (not hahah funny), you’d think after decades of disappointments, strident efforts made that go down in defeat, usually by others’ decisions, you’d think I’d be used to it. That disappointments would roll off like water off a duck’s back.

But it’s not like that. Not even a little. I take disappointments to heart. Often to soul. Left unattended, they could destroy me or my life even more so than suppressed rage and pain.

Weird, huh.

Also weird. A short three days ago, I wrote how fast things can change!

The whoosh of excitement. Of potential. That genuine rush of blood to the head, to quote Coldplay.

And change they did.

That POP! when a bottlecap’s lifted off the Coke bottle. Effervescent bubbles. Fizz. Ahhhhhhh!

Then you sip and discover the Coke’s flat. Or perhaps it’s not even Coke but Pepsi!

In closing …

Disappointment.

And gratitude that the editor responded to me at all. {very rarely happens!}

Nothing more to say; one philosophical question does spring to mind: If you give up on life, does life give up on you? I wonder.

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