To Be Chosen. Or Mostly Not.

There’s something to be said about being chosen.  It starts in elementary school. Well, probably before then, but elementary school is really where it starts  becoming clear if you’ll be one of those “chosen” people in life, or if you’ll be like the rest of us. I’m saying “the rest of us” like we’re a club because it almost makes me feel like I was chosen to be part of that kind-of-depressing-group. Coping mechanism. You see, I wasn’t chosen by Kyle, the cute blonde boy in first grade that I had a crush on (I never went through the boys have cooties stage. And I’m STILL single. This has been a longggg 18 years). He chose a different girl to share pens with, even though I helped him to the nurse when a door swung open and gave him a bloody nose. Then I auditioned for my first musical at age 7: The Wiz at San Diego Junior Theatre. They called back seven kids- I was one of them- out of hundreds who auditioned to be the munchkins (clearly, they were not going for a big cast). Six kids got the parts. You can guess who didn’t make the cut. A year later I moved to Virginia. Between the age of 8 and 12, I did over fifteen musicals with my children’s theatre. FIFTEEN. My poor mother drove me to all of those rehearsals to play what part, you might ask? Townsperson. Random orphan. Townsperson. Dancing barrel. Townsperson. Was I ever little orphan Annie? Nope. I was her understudy. Was I the princess in The Emperor’s New Clothes? Nope. I was her understudy. Was I the Narrator in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat? Nope. I was one of five girls who got called back, and they decided to split the role four ways. FOUR. Guess who, once again, got the boot? I’ll get over it. Mind you, I did get to play the role 11 years later at a different theatre when I was 22 years old...but come ON. Though I’m sure you get the point by now, I’ll give one- okay two- more examples of not being chosen in my childhood. I ran for class council every single year I was eligible. Fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh grade. Never happened. Also, the popular boy in fifth grade dated me as a dare. When I found out, I hid in the bathroom…I really thought he wanted to “go out with me.” But that one I can let slide since he’s now unfortunate looking and has no job.  Thank you Facebook for not making us wait until high school reunions to become secretly happy that the mean kids have digressed in life.

Now that I’ve written a paragraph that any psychologist would be thrilled to dissect, I’ll get to my point. Being chosen feels good. Whether it’s by a man (or woman) who wants to date you, someone who wants to befriend you, a director who wants to cast you, or a boss who wants to promote you, being chosen feels so darn good. I don’t care what excuses we listen to from our own self-preserving minds or the mouths of others, we’d all rather be chosen than convince ourselves that “he wasn’t in the right place in life to be with me” or “I was just overqualified for the job.” No. At the end of the day, you wish he’d told you that you were the girl who he’ll turn his world upside down for or that the director had created a brand new show revolving around your undiscovered talent. Yet, for most of us, these things don’t happen. At least not often. Perhaps ever.

GOOD NEWS. You can get better at not being chosen. Practice makes perfect. I’m a pro. I should seriously teach lessons for $40/hour on how to handle rejection. Adulthood is pretty much the same story as that paragraph about my childhood woes. Just sub the fake 5th grade boyfriend with men who choose someone over me or come up with some other awesome reason why we shouldn’t be serious, replace the theatre rejections with…wait, still the same thing, and swap running for class council with competing to be Miss Virginia/Miss New York. But somehow, the world keeps turning. You come to find that with each rejection, instead of the world ending, you still crave Chipotle just like before and that Modern Family makes you laugh. Then out of the blue you’re chosen for one small thing, and you appreciate it so much more than if being chosen was always a given. You’re so grateful for that one token of acknowledgement of what you have to offer that you become more determined to develop even more to offer, more to be acknowledged. Because you’re working on yourself, you inevitably become a better person. As you’re able to offer more- you’ve taken more voice lessons, worked on your patience, developed your purpose- you begin to see how you are and have been chosen.

I was chosen as the youngest member of Falcon Jazz, our school’s prestigious octet, in high school. I was chosen as a lead in my first ever regional theatre production straight out of college. I was chosen by my sorority and by the a cappella group. I was chosen to work at my restaurant even though I lacked the necessary experience. I was chosen to be a singer at Busch Gardens. I am chosen by my family. Yes, you may think that’s obligation on their parts, but some children are not so lucky to feel chosen and loved by their families. I am chosen by my friends who call and text me constantly to ask me about my life and tribulations.  The more you TRY and see how much you’re chosen, the more you see that you ARE. I’d still love to have a guy sweep me off my feet for the long haul or to be cast as the leading lady in a Broadway show, but when I think about how my friends make me laugh and check up on me daily, how my family calls to say they love me, and how my boss forgives me when I break the cork of a wine bottle, I am not as concerned with what ways I have not been chosen.

It’s hard to feel rejected. I’m not undermining that feeling. But the more it happens, the more you learn that a shift in your perspective can change everything. Each time you’re not chosen, you get better at making that shift. Isn’t that how it works with most challenges in life? You just need a simple shift in perspective. And plenty of practice.

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PS- I hit my ONE YEAR in NYC mark last Friday. How insane is that? I had a mini celebration: