Instead of harping on the rejection, it’s important to take action in order to move forward and not only stay in contact with the company, but also learn how you can improve as an interviewee. Here are five ways to bow out gracefully after receiving a rejection from a job that you desperately wanted.
Most of the decisions we make when we are 18, fall apart. When I was 18, the Registrars office at my University knew me by first name since I filed a “change of major” form once a week. And the day I decided to go get an ink stain on my wrist and piercing through my lip, I walked out of the tattoo parlor with nothing more than a temporary tattoo on my elbow.
6 years later, the only decision I made back then that has not fallen apart was when I decided to join a sorority.
Okay, so this isn’t an advice book. If you thought its pages were scribbled with a ten-commandment sort of list that would make you a powerhouse dater, then you may want to stop reading now. It’s just a gigantic hug to everyone out there who is still single.
It’s just a gigantic hug to everyone out there who is still single.
#25. Make a giant mistake: staying at your first job post-grad longer than you should, almost marrying a guy you know is absolutely not right for you. Maybe move across the country to Los Angeles and work at In-And-Out Burger while you’re trying to get some eyes on that screen play you wrote. These will be the experiences that will remind you that even at 25, you are still worthy of getting slapped around a bit by life. That you still have so much more to learn.
The guy behind a pair of thick rimmed glasses behind a flip camera asks me a couple of questions and I find myself rambling. In no particular order I mention: alligators, J.D Salinger, Croatia, Nicki Minaj, how fruity pebbles are amazing on top of mango ice cream. I stop. Only when he gives me the hand gesture of wrap it up, which is just a few steps above giving someone who is in the middle of speaking, the finger.
I’ve gone on over 27 job interviews since I graduated college almost 3 years ago. I wish that was a pathetic exaggeration and the number was closer to something in the single digits, but I have the bills from Kinkos (from all the resumes I had to print) and the layers of sweat stains on my button down blouse to prove it.
And on each of those 27+ interviews, I waited on the edge of my chair, hoping that someone would ask me what my GPA was. But they didn’t. Never. Not even once.
When you’re on a crowded subway at that too early hour in the morning and your face is submerged in someone else’s armpit and your toes are being crushed by someone else’s feet and all of a sudden, right in front of you, a seat opens up. And as you’re sitting down, eye level at all the briefcase commotion, you feel as though the chaos can salsa around you and it wouldn’t even matter. You’d feel safe. You’d feel detached. You’d feel exceptionally content.
Wthin 48 hours, two of my dearest friends both asked me the very same question. It was the kind of question that made little pellets of sweat dance down their foreheads and splash onto the collar of their shirts. It was the kind of question that made me run home and check the contents of my bank account, praying that the zeroes I kept seeing would magically turn into 8’s.
I go on dates, every so often, and after most of them I want to toss my phone across my living room and enter a time machine to go back three hours and pretend none of it ever happened. Or I’m left feeling discouraged. Or I’m left digging a spoon deep in some Cherry Garcia.