Life’s been throwing a few curve balls lately, so I haven’t been as productive with my Fancy Facing as I’d like. I was going to write an entire post about the very bizarre dream that I had last night involving Craig T. Nelson (yes, that Craig T. Nelson–and no, I have no idea where my subconscious pulled that one out from). But it was just too odd to even begin to describe here.
So, I pulled out something I wrote awhile ago while in the midst of some very girly wallowing. I hadn’t wanted to post it at the time because the sting was still there. But, as it usually does, time helped to ease that. Without further introduction, here’s documentation of a week when I very healthily dealt with a bit of rejection.
Being a person who has trouble expressing her feelings to men and finally taking a chance to express what’s been bottled up for awhile only to be rejected is the pits.
Going through that with someone you thought you’d be ok with being rejected by–only to discover you’re not really–is definitely the pits.
And realizing only when you step back and consider your recent eating choices that you’re not doing as well with that rejection as you thought you were is…sadly delicious! (?)
Sunday. I’m returning home from a day spent at a food fair in Brooklyn at which I’d consumed a small chicken burger, tater tots, some sort of Indian pancake, a black and white cookie/cupcake thing of wonder, and a mojito. I feel like I’m not hungry for a full dinner, but as I’m walking down the street I think about my empty apartment. And I decide that there may just be enough room in my stomach for a piece of seven layer cake from the local bakery. All that other stuff was a good six hours ago and after all, it is by far the best seven layer cake I’ve ever had. Before I know it I’ve paid my $4.50 and am returning to my place, box in hand. I put the piece of cake on a plate (because, I’m not that uncivilized), get a fork, and proceed to my living room floor. I eat the cake as the sun sets. In an attempt to not be a total glutton, I eat only the cake and not the frosting along the outside. This obviously makes the situation much better.
Tuesday. On top of the rejection, it was a particularly stressful day at work, so a friend and I go to a local bar for happy hour. We order nachos and Cajun fries. The nachos don’t have nearly enough cheese and the fries don’t taste Cajun at all. We also order sangria. The sangria is really sweet, so sweet that I question whether there’s actually any wine in it, or if the bar’s pulled a fast one and padded it with juice instead. As a result, I drink two glasses too quickly, but realize when I stand up that there was, indeed, alcohol in it. I tell my friend I’m fine, but I know I need to wait this out before heading home, so I walk over to the Barnes and Noble to kill some time. I kind of wish I was a bit more tipsy so that I could have an excuse to send an embarrassing text message and pour my heart out all over again. But I’m not that tipsy so no text message is sent. Instead I just sit on the floor by myself reading the first few chapters of Columbine. This makes me tear up. It’s embarrassing.
Wednesday. I’m eating dinner—Greek chicken from Trader Joe’s—and I read the rejection email on my phone while eating. I begin crying and my food loses its flavor. On the plus side, I’m sitting on my sofa rather than the floor; and actually this food choice isn’t outrageous.
Thursday. And I’m back to the floor. After some time spent simply sitting on my floor after work (this sitting may have been preceded by a brief period of lying face-down on a pillow on the floor), I realize that hours have passed and I still haven’t had dinner. I have a decision to make: Force myself to prepare something to eat, which I really don’t feel like doing even though I am kind of hungry, or just call it a night and wait for breakfast in the morning. I decide the middle ground between these two choices is to heat up a tray of Trader Joe’s pigs-in-a-blanket hors d’oeuvres. Since they’re called “parmesan pastry puffs” on the box and because they also have no nitrites added, I reason that this is actually a somewhat classy and healthy option. Twenty minutes later my egg timer stops ticking (it broke a long time ago, so there’s no cheerful ding when cooking time is up, the ticking simply ceases), and I eat about 10 of these things with a glass of water.
Friday. There are 6 leftover pastry puff pigs in a blanket, wrapped in foil in my fridge. When considering my lunch for work today, I decide that I don’t want the piggies to go to waste, so I take them, along with a veggie burger, because I feel that 6 pastry puffs wouldn’t be enough for a whole lunch. In the cafeteria at work I heat up the pastry puffs first. When the puffs are done, I sit at a table by myself with the plate of them in front of me while waiting for my veggie burger to heat up. A coworker walks in as I take a bite of one and she tries to mask her initial reaction of sheer disgust with a quick smile. It is at this moment–sitting alone in the cafeteria at work on a Friday eating a plate of re-heated leftover cocktail weiners while being scrutinized and/or pitied by someone–that I realize I’m not really dealing with this rejection very well.