The delayed "hella" is totally a better adjective

I don’t want to come out and say that I believe in omens, because most of the time I lump them in the crap pile with fate, destiny, karma and all of that other Buddhism-ala-It’s a Wonderful Life mumbo jumbo that assures nice people that being nice is the best way to be. But I’m only a weakly human and I was raised in a very superstitious family, so yesterday when I heard Billy Joel on the radio on my hurried drive to work (lost track of time, garage door opener wouldn’t work, daily caffeine had not been consumed) I suspected that it might be a good omen. Turns out that it wasn’t and I came home to some unpleasant news in my inbox, but it’s not a complete loss – Billy is good driving jams.

Since I have been trying to do this writing thing more earnestly, I think that I have started to get used to the rejection. It’s all part of the process and I realize that, just like I realize that having a super awkward day job is also part of the process. But if you take into the account the fact that a year ago I didn’t let anyone look at my work, perhaps you can understand the discomfort of waiting for acceptance/rejection for me. Pretty much I’m like a girl at the prom that has to wear headgear all the time and came with her best gal-pal as a date.

The whole thing is very ridiculous and to prove that I’m not taking myself and my sorrows too seriously I’ll tell you exactly why. I am by nature and by incredibly bad habit a compulsive email checker. Checking my email is the first thing I do when I get up in the morning (after deodorant, another compulsive habit) and the last thing I do before I go to bed. I am dependent on it as a source of communication and every empty inbox is a stark personal insult. Shouldn’t someone that I didn’t like in high school be FB-friending me right now?

The weird thing about making email submissions is that it completely shuts down this process. It’s not that I am dreading rejection, exactly; it is more that I have lost the aching curiosity to know what someone else might be telling me. It is very entertaining for my main squeeze, who is used to me leaning over mid-movie to minimize the window, click my gmail icon and hit “enter” twice in the manner of impatient people with saved passwords.

Last night when I got home we were sitting in the kitchen talking over the events our day (me: mean old chick that called me “young lady”; him: new John Muir obsession) and he asked me if I wanted to go and check my email. I declined; he inquired and I relented out of embarrassment. As I mentioned earlier the results of that swift double “enter” were unsavory, but my email reluctance was banished immediately.

Turns out that Billy Joel wasn’t an omen of creative triumph; he was an omen of triumphant bad habits. Today I’m going to be checking my email, hella.