I wrote my first rejection letter yesterday. More of a rejection tweet than a letter, really. Didn't end with sincerity or warmth or regards or even my 'best'. Just the one line , the mildest, totally acceptable form of bugger off.
As if walking out of a newspaper job last month -- no, month before last, hello March! -- without another in hand wasn't harebrained enough. Now I think these people who tried to hire me -- remember that interview I went for? -- don't deserve me. Even before yesterday, even before I read their email with the insubstantial offer, sitting outside a trial room at Zara, in front of a mirror, two brown bags at my feet, waiting for my best friend (in town, on holiday) to finish trying on dresses and skirts and pretty polka and olive tops so she could finish buying the shop down -- keep the blue back, not worth it -- my gut was nudging me to fly away, little birdie. Vanish right along. These ones aren't for you.
It didn't require more thought than that. And so, on the train, in the ladies compartment, on my way home, after the mall crawl with my friend who agreed the offer was an insult, I sent them the prompt reply they had asked for.
No formal letter of appointment needed, thank you. The offer doesn't work for me.
Mainly, the offer doesn't work for me because of the chicken poop disguised as salary. But silver lining wise, I'm glad it was so easy. If it were a generous offer, I'd have to have said yes to something my heart wasn't in. I don't know what it was. All I have for a basis is my two meetings with them. And I'm not even sure it was the moustached guy on the panel, one of the three interviewers, who sent me a text afterwards congratulating me on my 'enthusiasm'.
The older I get, the more people I want to thwack on the head. Maybe next month this time I'll be in a more beggars-can't-be-choosers frame of mind.