Possibly the Worst Week on Record

Once upon a time there was a job that I really wanted. I had dreamed of it for years, and at the time I'm not sure if there was anything in the world that I wanted more. I had the qualifications and very little competition, if any (speaking Cantonese is not a very common skill). I went down for an interview, and it went well. Then there was another a couple weeks later, and then a third, and then a fourth, and then finally, after an arduous two months of interviews, screening and suspense, I got a phone call saying that I had been denied the position.

This is all sounding very familiar. We're getting right back to the roots of this blog: rejection! A few years ago it was the grueling several-month waiting process and eventual rejection that started me writing in the first place, and here we are, in the same situation. It's almost like going home...if home is a place where your dreams habitually disintegrate.

This turn of events prompted a whole mess of thoughts and emotions--what was I missing? Was there someone better than me, or did they just hate me so much that they rejected me without even having a backup option? Then that brought on the regret--I should've somehow displayed more confidence, or never broken eye contact, or shined my shoes--and those thoughts don't help, either. Eventually I was just left with the daunting notion that I was still out of a job, and this unfruitful process had devoured my entire summer of prospective working time before the semester.

A few short days later, things got worse. 

Way back in 2016, in the earliest days of this whole blogging venture, I purchased a machete. It was a good one, made out of 1055 carbon steel and sporting a sweet black powder coating. For years it served me well, everywhere from hiking in the mountains to bushwhacking in my own backyard.

But then one day my hand was a tad too high on the sheath as I drew it. Something didn't quite feel right, so I looked down and immediately thought oh, that's stitches. The edge of the blade had run along my clenched finger as I unsheathed it, slicing deep.

It was at about that point that my lifeguard training kicked in, and I calmly walked to the bathroom before it started bleeding and proceeded to drip helplessly into the sink, staring curiously at my new wound while waiting for my sister to return with the gauze pad I'd asked her to fetch.

Then, maintaining a death grip on my gauze-wrapped finger, we had to go upstairs to explain to our parents how I now needed to be taken to the emergency room--not what you want to hear right before bedtime, but they kindly consented to take me while I sat in the back, keeping pressure on the wound.

Lovely, isn't it?

I came home with six stitches and a splint, and was left to pursue normal life without the full functionality of my left hand. This brought a whole new set of complications like duct-taping a plastic bag around my arm to shower, putting a pause on my efforts to recover my long-lost piano skills, and just trying to type with that humongous splint.

All things considered, it was a pretty terrible week. But the thing was, it just kind of reached the point where it was funny. My misfortune and each new complication that emerged from it became the topic of humor, and before long I was smiling at my plight. It made me appreciate the little details of this odd experience, like when they took the stitches out and glued the little fabric strips over the wound with this pine-scented medical glue, and I had to go around with my hand smelling like one of those tree-shaped air fresheners for the rest of the day. 

We also decided that since my machete has now tasted the blood of man, it was time to officially name it, as befitting an instrument of destruction. Its new name is Sarga (pronounced sar-ya), the Swedish word meaning to lacerate. Because what else? Ordinarily I'd say my Viking ancestors would be proud, but honestly they would probably just laugh.

So at the end of it all, I've racked up a lot of stories to tell, received a healthy dose of perspective, started to regain flexibility in my finger, and applied for five other jobs.

Now all I need are chainmail gloves.

His Manebimus Optime!