Last week, I went on what I thought at the time was a really great date. I had just flown in from a trip to California, so I didn’t really know which end was up at that point, time zones and bicoastal travel being what they are. Nevertheless, I went, because he had promised to get me through my jetlag with beer and banter. I’m not built to resist that kind of charm and alliteration.
At the end of the date, as we walked towards our respective trains, I pointed out that his had just crested the hill a few blocks away. In the romantic comedy in my head, he would’ve shrugged and said with a debilitating smile that there would be another along in a few minutes. In reality, he gave me a quick hug, wished me luck with my jetlag, and made a run for it.
I stood there for a moment, bewildered, and then grumpily went to catch my own train. A warning bell had chimed ominously when he had used the phrase “good luck.” Something about it seemed decidedly valedictory. My confusion only grew when he texted me a few minutes later, saying he’d had a great time and wishing me luck once more.
One of the things I’ve learned in my spotty dating experience is that you can analyze every word, text, emoticon, and gesture (and believe me I do), but the surest sign of a successful date is very simple: it was a success if he asks you on another one.
Eight days of radio silence later, I grudgingly conceded that I had been blown off. I had spent the intervening weekend with my best friend in Chicago, pestering her and her husband mercilessly for their own analysis. Her husband, when I described the timeline, had winced noticeably at the lack of communication since our date. There are few things, I find, as indicative as an honest man’s wince.
Last night, I got a text from my best friend, asking me, against all hope, if the guy had texted. I told her no, he hadn’t, but that she and I both already knew that he wouldn’t.
“What a dumbass,” she responded.
“Yes,” I acceded. “On the bright side, he’s balding and I’m over my jetlag.”
(I never claimed to be graceful in defeat.)
Obviously, this guy's hairline had nothing to do with my opinion of him. I had really liked the schmuck, but since the feeling did not turn out to be mutual, I gleaned whatever shamefully petty, positive spin I could from the situation.
It is entirely possible that I regressed, more than usual, to this particularly nasty side of my personality because I am currently waiting on acceptance or rejection in other high-stakes areas of my life. I have, as of this moment, been accepted into two of the four graduate programs to which I applied. This is hardly a bad state of affairs, but the issue I’m dealing with right now is that I’ve had no word from my top choice program in nearly six weeks.
In dating, I know what one week of radio silence means. In applying to graduate school, I have no frame of reference for such things. At least they didn’t wish me luck.
Meanwhile, the strain of being optimistic, grateful, circumspect, and patient have nearly driven me bat-shit bonkers. None of those qualities come naturally to me, and I feel as though my seams are starting to stretch and show. Every time someone asks me about my applications, my tone pitches upwards towards my falsely thoughtful registers, and I nod with the equanimity of someone who has calmly acquiesced to this arbitrary, excruciating process.
In reality, I want to lock my door, rip out my wall fixtures, smash all my dishes, and then nurse a large Scotch while weeping in the debris. And I don’t even know for sure that I’ve been rejected.
Ironically, in the case that I am rejected, my alternative will be the realization of a fantasy I’ve had for years: I’ll shed my suit skirts, strap on my Tevas, hop into a well-placed Subaru Forester, and head west. There is nothing wrong with that picture—it is a truly fantastic alternative. But desire is a funny thing: will the rejection from the program I want so badly cast a pall over the others, regardless of how enthusiastically they greet me? Will the rejection of the one I really want make the acceptance of the others less valuable? What does that say about me if that’s the case?
I'm not entirely sure I'm still even talking about graduate school.
People get accepted and rejected all the time, and they generally figure out how to deal with it, with dinnerware more or less intact. A small, rebellious part of me is actually rooting for the necessity of going west: to take the hit, roll with it, pick myself up, and make an alternative work. More than that: to find that maybe the alternative could be unexpectedly wonderful and somehow exactly what I needed. I'm always surprised when one of the voices in my head is that brave.
Sometimes, guys don’t call and schools don’t accept. The waiting, in both cases, is probably the worst part: the time in which you can rationalize every hour of silence and convince yourself of every outcome imaginable. But the answer comes (thankfully graduate schools guarantee you a response; guys, not so much), and you figure out how to live with it, regardless of what it is. “Living with it” can range from making petty quips to adjusting your attitude towards realizing you may not have gotten what you want, but what you got was kind of amazing nevertheless.
And so, in the meantime, we wait.
Good luck with that!
