“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On my Head,” reading (more) Nora Ephron, the power of rejection, and other unsolicited ramblings to begin 2023
Okay, some confessions.
That song, by B. J. Thomas…you know, from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid…? Well, even if it meets the definition of saccharine, for some reason, it has been the de facto soundtrack to 2023 so far. Why? Why do I feel whatever affinity to this song, now, out of all days? Why do I feel like this?
“Raindrops keep falling on my head
But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turning red
Crying’s not for me
’Cause, I’m never gonna stop the rain by complaining
Because I’m free”
It’s like…when your life – i.e. you, in the drone, humdrum of errandry and monotony in a Fry’s Grocery in Sunnyslope – or rather, this day, feels like one, long rom-com montage between the second and third acts. You know what I’m talking about: where one character can’t seem to get anything right--that sort of thing. When, for some reason, even though every time you’ve been to that same exact Fry’s where there’s been a plethora, a stampede of shopping carts, but on this day, the very one day you kinda need for things to go smoothly, there’s now a suspicious lack of shopping carts for just you in-particular, seemingly fueling some not-so-ironic allegory about your life (and I truly mean this, like, I couldn’t find a shopping cart for the life of me…meanwhile, anyone who saw this gripped tightly onto theirs as if I was going to take it). Thus, a trip to the grocery turned into an odyssey, and after a couple of trips wandering the store as if on LSD, the one shopping cart with a broken wheel found me. Well played, universe.
When…traffic won’t cease to be an exercise in a sardonic humor.
When all of your plans don’t click, even though every Monday leading up to this, they’ve all at-least seemed to work out okay (plans), since you’re not doing anything that terribly important.
When, that episode of Friends you watch during your workout just so happens to involve a topic you’re feeling particularly sore about.
When…during your meditation, you can’t help but feel this endless (or what feels, anyways) groundswell of waterworks pour out because there’s that feeling---you know, that uh-huh one in your gut, which both invokes the aftermath of a bad dish of cheap take-out and also, the sensation that you’re walking on air. You ask for a sign and you get…?
When, that sense of okay-ness in your gut is burnt, as if the universe seems to think you need another lesson in the absolute banality and powerlessness of it all.
When, that part of you who’s still perpetually stuck in the sixth grade (overweight, under-cool, big glasses, wallflower, suffering-in-silence, etc) rears her head again from the sand, even though you’ve never felt more confident and independent and pretty in your entire life.
When, you’ve forgotten appointments because it’s too late to take your ADD medication, so a part of your head runs faster than Quicksilver and the other swims within a fishbowl in the clouds.
When, a week ago you swear you hit a stride in your life and felt invincible and then, within the span of a week, you’re back to questioning everything.
When, you get that feeling of petulant crabbiness one experiences (and exudes) when they are in the preteen range (despite being a young woman in her 30’s) and you can’t help but let it just ruminate your bones like somebody’s smashed your tiara at your quinceañera.
Like, you keep on hearing this song and for some reason, it just brings up those emotions, and you see yourself in the third-person stumbling about; when you pray to whoever it is that keeps you right-sized, and the truest words come out of your mouth on the wings of tearful prayer, confessing, “Dear lord, for umpteenth time, ouch,” even though you have lots of wisdom and experience to differentiate being a naïve girl and the headstrong person you are. Like…you feel so young, yet, at the same time, perhaps older than anyone can truly comprehend (including yourself).
When you think about meeting some of your heroes, the ones who are no longer with us, and that feeling leaves something of a hole in your heart – even though you’ve never met them, nor had any chance at meeting them – and then, that sentimental throe of sentience tugs your heartstrings like a harp.
When, your family decides it’s time to take down all the holiday decorations in one fell-swoop, and so, the holiday you’ve woken up to for weeks is suddenly gone, even though you really want them to be up all year (and no, this is not exaggeration).
When, this silly, ridiculous song from a western movie plays from the moment you’ve gotten into the car to where you try to type out just why is it that you’re still listening to it for the umpteenth time.
When, you feel that way and you hadn’t planned on it and yet, it’s there (this feeling), a feeling reminding you that you have no business thinking you know what the next page of your life entails.
When, all you want to do is curl up under the covers and wish you were sleepy enough to snoodle off throughout the day as it rains (which, unfortunately, it won’t) and sip tea and read and watch incomprehensibly bad films from your childhood.
Today’s mantra: rejection makes me beautiful. I know, I know, how fundamentally backwards and contradictory it sounds, but it’s true. Rejection is a sort of anti-affirmation, or what we benchwarmers label ourselves as embodying the proverbial moniker, “acquired taste.” So, of course no one is everyone’s cup of tea, or so and so, something to that tune, but let’s just call being on the receiving end of rejection for what it is: the makings for a sort of perverse, anti-pride. However, this isn’t to say that I have any sense of superiority regarding my current lot in the pecking order per se, but I do have a survivor’s dignity. Like, if it’s this rough being reminded I may be one of the least used ingredients in the pantry, then it’s whatever, FINE. More than fine, but perfect, soluble, present, neutral, se la vie, it is what it is.
Moving on.
Syntax. Specifically, let’s talk about how advice is worded and given. Syntax, in this sense, being how whenever you hear advice regarding the universe “conspiring” to give you everything you’ve ever wanted, and yet, for this one thing you’ve ALWAYS wanted and thought you finally found, yet again, all you end up with is the diametrically opposite (I’m being purposefully vague here). So, what do you do? You begin to wonder if it’s really everyone else, or just YOU who’s fundamentally off about how the universe actually functions.
Also: when you have a mother who also has ADD, and ask her if she’s seen a particular adapter lying around, realizing you’ve again set her on an endless journey rummaging for said adapter (despite not knowing how it looks), you then relearn…to next time ask responsibly, lest she tears apart the house in search of something she didn’t know existed 30 seconds prior.
What is luck? If I find out, I’ll let you know.
Sometimes, I like to listen to a song on repeat and watch a movie that I’m writing in my head to the music. Then, if my mind wanders, I restart the song and say out loud to myself to focus. Is this meditation? In the very least, it’s ADD.
Romantic comedies have lied to me my entire life, and yet, like a goldfish, every time I watch another one, my mind resets and I think, “maybe that can happen to me someday.” Well, it’s been 30-some years, honeypie, and well…maybe someday, you know?
Tennessee Williams once wrote that nobody has any business being lonesome alone. I wish that were a law of the universe.
Heartbreak is this thing that’s so familiar to me, that at this point, I ought to get a sign somewhere outside my office asking for donations, like the Salvation Army. Maybe, I imagine, this sign will be posted with the words, “Perpetually heartbroken, spare a nickel so I can buy some decaf, won’t you?” Or even better, “Whatever it is you think is bugging you, if you end up listening to my story, a nickel is a bargain for making you feel better.”
I have to say: You’re never done editing.
Another thing:
“Everything is copy.”
Well, here’s my spin on that: "Copy is everything.”
If there was a prize for, “No, I actually am a voracious reader and not just saying it in public” award, I think I could place in the top 8, or at least get a medal. Mind you, I don’t say this as a source of pride, but when you drive the freeway recontextualizing Shakespeare to Joan Baez, then it lends why rejection follows hand-in-hand with your stuffed animals, chachkas, tie-dye crocs, and sobbing your eyes out until you look like you’ve either A) smoked ALL the weed, B) contracted pink eye, or C) perhaps both (all untrue, obviously).
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” someone says. You know it’s true, but then, at the same time, you think, “how many times do I have to hear this until I’m proven otherwise?” Has the world gone upside down? No, no, that’s just being human, right? Right…?
Accumulating material belongings continues to bug me. I feel like I’m always purging, even though I live with my parents, and I assure you, all of my belongings fit into 2 rooms (1, if we’re 86’ing their furniture). Maybe I’ll donate some more this weekend.
Herbal tea. That is all.
I’d like to mention another: decaffeinated, non-dairy lattes. Call me a sucker, but they are the truth.
Okay, one more: teeth picks. They’re essential when you have braces.
Last one: sunscreen. Wear it. Embrace it. Savor it. Let it save your skin from becoming leather. Apply liberally and often.
“You deserve the whole pie, don’t settle for crumbs,” says mom, who has repeated this for my entire life whenever and if-ever, I develop feelings for anyone. At this rate, I will have to be married before I can even mention having feelings for someone, forcing her to even consider the thought that maybe, her protectiveness tends to cloud her judgement. Still…it’s good advice, though.
The words “I love you,” don’t really mean the same for you as everyone else.
Being out-of-place is okay. It means you are unique. The pièce de résistance. Eye of the goose.
Life is messy by nature. Do not forget this (note to self).
I wish I could have met you, Nora Ephron (and Charles Bukowski, among many).
Your heart is a commodity only a handful of people will ever find valuable. Protect it. Cherish it.
Rejection makes me beautiful. It does. No, honestly. I feel beautiful.
