We are all coping with the COVID-19 pandemic in different ways. I find solace in Diet Coke and Hulu. I've been isolating since the second week of March due to my crappy excuse for an immune system. Struggling to breathe in isolation has never been top on my "ways I'd be okay dying" list, so I stay home. I was okay with that for about two minutes. I kept going to work for about 10 days after the world realized that this was not the flu. Now my best friends are my grocery delivery guy and my shared backyard. I laugh when I go to the hospital for my infusions. They take my temperature and deem me fit to enter. I haven't run a fever in years. Decades. But at least I'm permitted entrance.
I digress.
Many who follow my adventures know that I moved from California to Utah to pursue my dream of becoming a music therapist. I took crazy classes like Anatomy, voice lessons, and the history of Rock and Roll, all with the same goal in mind. My first audition didn't make it past the preliminary round, but I knew I could give it one more try while completing the rest of my prerequisites, so I started prepping again. The audition process begins in December, and applicants cross their fingers and pray they'll get to audition live. I was among the lucky few who got to the live audition. I practiced 6 days a week, at least one hour a day (or until my fingers hurt), and the day finally came. I went in, I did my best, and I began waiting again. We were supposed to hear back by the first weekend in March. I waited and waited, and nothing came. I waited even longer, and then I emailed the program director to check in. After six weeks of waiting and with fall registration looming over my head, I finally called the department office.
The administrative assistant (is it still not PC to say secretary?) informed me that my name was not on the list and suggested I email the program director (again). I informed him that I'd already emailed her twice, so he suggested I email once more. Dejected and sure I knew the outcome, I emailed her. I got a reply the next day saying that my musical skills were not strong enough for the program along with the generic "thanks for auditioning, have a nice life" speech.
Aware that the program is competitive, I wasn't overly surprised that I didn't get in. I was flabbergasted that my musical abilities were to blame. I began singing "Say you, Say me" before I could talk. I taught myself piano basics by the age of six. I took lessons for 10 years. I sang in every honor choir and even in an elite college group. I began directing choirs at the age of 14. If I look at a piece of music, I can sight read it. Perfectly. Every time.
I'm not here to say poor me. I'm here to remind us all that when disappointment and rejection rear their ugly heads, we have a choice. We can sulk, stew, and surrender, or we can yell "PLOT TWIST" and move on in a new direction.
Plot twists make classic literature classic. They keep readers up all night hoping that they'll read the ending they envisioned. Plot twists allow Elizabeth and Darcy to end up together after she tells him he's the biggest tool nineteenth century literature has ever seen. They precipitate magic.
