Deep Sigh

I made the mistake of reaching out to a number of the “dangling, unresolved career opportunities” a few days back to, basically, try and resolve them before the end of the year. If nothing else, I thought, at least I’ll hopefully have an answer and not have to keep wondering about things. I was a fool, let me tell you.

It’s not just that getting multiple, “The answer is no, we just didn’t know how to tell you” messages in quick succession does something to your self-confidence, although that’s definitely the case — although, to be blunt, my self-confidence is pretty much in the toilet thanks to everything else in 2021 as-is, so it could be worse, I guess…? Actually, no; getting rejected repeatedly, even from opportunities that I had already pretty much figured were rejections by dint of simply refusing to engage, is really not any kind of fun, and ends up feeling like an encore of the big Broadway number where you’re told that no-one actually wants you. It’s really shitty.

Anyway, it’s not just that, honestly; it’s also the fact that, with every closed door, I get that little bit more melancholic about the future, which led to a recent morning where I’d been woken up by one of the pets and could not, for the life of me, get back to sleep. I just lay there, feeling as if a void of Something That Wasn’t Writing But Joke’s On You I Have No Other Employable Skills was lying in wait for me, just around the corner.

On the plus side, I feel as if a midlife crisis centered around the idea that you have no real job prospects is oddly fitting for someone in their late ’40s, even as I’m simultaneously appalled at being such a cliche that this could apply to me. Remember those halcyon days when I had consistent, well-paid work? Remember (checks notes) 18 months ago? [Writer rises from desk, stifles sob, says, “Excuse me, I have something in my eye,” and runs from room, dramatically.]