Purge.

Purge. That's what I want to do right now, and I don't know exactly how so I'll just write. Ever since I arrived in Ann Arbor and walked through the door of a particular company, which I'll just call Company X, I was amazed by what I saw. There was a feeling of respect which Company X exuded that was so rich that it dripped off of the shelves, respect for their product, respect for their employees, respect for their community, respect for a higher meaning than just making money. The effect that Company X had upon me cannot really be exaggerated. It made me rethink so many parts of who I was and what I wanted. It permeated my career desires, it made me rethink and refine some of my moral foundations, it's very existence brought happiness to me--and I wanted to be a part of it. Two weeks ago, my persistence paid off and I was interviewed for a job there. Ten days ago, I had such a buoyant experience as I worked side by side with the employees there for six hours (their version of a job interview)--and they even paid me for it, while I would have paid them to be able to go behind their counter. Then came the wait, knowing that today, Wednesday, I would find out whether I could work there. Every day was longer than the day before it, until yesterday and this morning which seemed to take a year to pass by. Then the call: "Everyone liked working with you, but we've decided to go with someone more qualified."

Pain. It was like being told "You're a really nice guy, but I'm just not interested" by the girl in the third row who I had a crush on for so long but was afraid to ask out, but finally screwed up the courage. My arms felt raw, my throat hurt, my eyes burned, my stomach sank from the rocks inside. To save face and salvage every hope that I could muster I said, "yes," I would like to be referred to other managers in other departments if they could use me. Just use me.

Then I hang up and need consoled and console back as my wife and I share the pain. For that is what being married offers, someone who truly shares my pain and joy, moment by moment, but especially right then. She felt it as hard as I did, because it hurts to see someone you love reach and stumble. If I had walked out on stage and forgot my lines and been laughed at or booed off, she would feel it too. I don't think she's seen me yet want something so hard--and then not get it. I hurt, and she hurt too, and the minutes kept passing, and the hours will pass, and the days will pass, and we have to breathe.

Breathe. Straighten the spine. Exhale hard. Look around. The table's still there, salt still lays spilled on the tablecloth, her eyes are still so beautiful (just a little more moist), and bills still have to be paid. So now my El Dorado is gone, not that it can't reappear, but for now it's gone, and I still have bills to pay.

El Dorado was so far away, but it still clouded my sight--I could see nothing else. Now that it's gone I can separate my dreams from what reality is offering. I can still dream, but I also have to find a job. It's time to get to work...