Burnt Toast. Teri Hatcher

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СКАЧАТЬ mean to be harmful. I learned to be a loser, to manage failure, to expect that even my best efforts wouldn’t fulfill expectations, and that I would never be good enough at anything. Ironically, I became great at having that attitude.

      When I was fourteen or fifteen, I auditioned for the San Francisco Ballet. I went with some of the other girls in my dance class. I knew they were all better than I was, and, not surprisingly, I didn’t get in. I still have the rejection letter. Why save it, you might wonder. Was it that important to me? Was I that heartbroken? Not exactly. But the scrapbook I made while in high school had a section titled “Failures,” and that’s where I kept the letter of rejection, along with a few photos of ex-boyfriends. How’s that for being a good loser? I kept a record of my losses the way others might carefully preserve their ribbons and medals. Like I wanted to have a physical place to affirm the notion that I was not good. (Can you say therapy? Don’t worry, I got there eventually.)

      I may have been a brick instead of a sponge, but I still ended up a maths major in college. (Well, junior college. I’d been planning to transfer to Cal Poly, but I never made it. Who wouldn’t sideline calculus for a chance to work for Captain Stubing on Love Boat?) Maybe that’s why I tend to look at my life as if it’s a problem to be solved. I calculate all the possible scenarios – or at least all the bad ones – analyzing, judging, protecting, defending. Like there must be a right answer if only I could find it. But there isn’t and I can’t. Life isn’t two plus two equals four. I wish it were that simple and clear cut.

      You only get one life, and it’s supposed to be fun, isn’t it? Of course we all have to work, but isn’t the point of working hard to succeed and to use that success to secure yourself a well-earned, hearty chunk of fun? Having fun is letting go. Letting go of all that analyzing and planning and second-guessing yourself. But it can be really hard to do. In small doses, cautious doubt is healthy – you keep things in perspective and don’t set yourself up for disappointment. But I let it get out of control. And sometimes that doubt creeps into other parts of my life – from my friendships to my social life to exercise to work.

      It’s really easy for me to foresee my own failure. If I’m trying out for a part I tell myself, They’ll want someone younger. Or blonde. Or left-handed. Basically, they won’t want me. But I still try as hard as I can. It’s all a silent, internal battle that I try not to let have a visible effect unless, or until, something brings it to the surface. Around the same time I was up for a part in Desperate Housewives, I was also up for a part in another ABC show – a sitcom. A sitcom can be an easier gig than an hour-long show, at least in terms of the work schedule and hours. So I figured that even though I loved the Desperate Housewives script, the sitcom was my top choice since it jibed better with my priorities as a single mom.

      I went in to test for the sitcom first, doing a scene in front of some network executives from ABC. I felt comfortable; people laughed; I thought I did great. That night, I waited for the phone to ring and…nothing. Nothing that night. Nothing the next day. I was having a nervous breakdown. When I finally heard back, I hadn’t gotten the part. Okay, that’s happened before – just another memento for the failures page. But what killed me was that word came back that somebody in the room thought I had an attitude. Like I had a chip on my shoulder or thought I was too fancy to audition. Well, that sent me reeling. I couldn’t believe it. It was so untrue. It’s even hard to share this story with you because I worry some of you will believe I did have an attitude – you remember that feeling you had when you were a kid and your parents thought you were lying about something and you weren’t, but there was no way you were going to change their minds?

      When I was fifteen I was at my boyfriend’s house. My mom came to pick me up in our Chevy Vega, and before we drove a block, she pulled over and insisted that I’d been smoking pot. Well, I hadn’t and I told her so. Hell, I didn’t even know what pot was. (I wasn’t kidding about that goody-goody thing.) But she kept insisting she could smell it on my breath. What happened to being innocent until proven guilty? I guess that constitutional right went out the Vega window and was replaced with her lack of confidence that I was an honest person whom she could trust to just answer a question directly. No, somehow I’d become a plotting, manipulative bad seed and it was my mother’s obligation to shuck me out. Well, I did prove my innocence by producing a tube of lip gloss. Yes, it turned out to be the dreaded grape-flavored Bonne Bell Lip Smacker. That sweet smell she was associating with pot was just lip balm. Then again, I was guilty of too much kissing.

      Not being believed is a real emotional trigger for me. I was more upset about that than about not getting the sitcom job. I really wanted that job, and I’d been excited to audition for it. How had I given off an arrogant vibe? How could I be so disconnected from the people around me? Those questions spiraled into worse thoughts. It was horrifying to be perceived as arrogant or presumptuous. Ugh. I must be an awful person to create that impression and to be so oblivious to it. The thoughts went on and on like that. Blaming myself and only myself. The upshot is that I cried for 18 hours straight. That’s right – it’s not a typo. (Unless it says 180, in which case it is a typo – it should read 18.) Again, I wasn’t crying about not getting the part, but about a lifetime of feeling misunderstood.

      Ever cried for eighteen hours straight? I looked like someone had given me an un-facial. My face was pink and puffy. My eyes were so swollen I couldn’t open them. I looked like a joint advertisement for Kleenex and cold medicine. And that’s when the phone rang and I was told to come in that day to test for Desperate Housewives. I said, “I can’t.” How could I audition? I was ready to jump off a bridge, or at least a rock outcropping even higher than the one I’d faced in Sedona. I felt limp and wounded and hideous and far too embarrassed to walk into a room with most of the same ABC executives to go through the humiliation and misunderstanding all over again. So I told them I couldn’t do it unless they postponed the audition. It was a risky move – what if it made them think I had even more of an attitude? – and one that could have easily lost me the part.

      Was that the right thing to do, or was it self-destructive? Well, of course it would have been nice to be able to pull myself together, but that sure didn’t feel like an option the moment the phone rang. If I walked into that room I had to be ready. I had to do it without sabotaging myself, without the poisonous cocktail of humiliation and anger that was still in my system like a bad hangover. As it happened, they were able to reschedule the test for a week later, and I took the opportunity to make everything right. Before I went in, I sent cookies to everyone who’d been at the sitcom audition, with a letter saying, “I don’t know what your perception of that meeting was, but I was very grateful for the opportunity to audition, and I wish you good luck with the project.” That made me feel better – a little “heard” and a little more in control, so by the time the Desperate Housewives audition rolled around, I was ready to do it in the right spirit.

      As I waited my turn to meet with the producers, I watched the sun set outside the glass windows on the top floor of the ABC building and thought about how life is beautiful and full of opportunities and how, if you try, you can make it have the zen of a golf shot. Last week was horrible, but this week doesn’t have to be connected to it. I had a brand-new shot, and I was going to make it good. I was determined to make sure there were no false impressions. So I went into that meeting, in jeans and a t-shirt, with no makeup on, and let them see who I really was. Not a glamorous Bond girl. Not a back-stabbing villain like the one I played in Spy Kids. Just me, a less-than-perfect woman and a devoted mother, closer to Susan Mayer than any other character I’d ever played.

      So that worked. Deep breath. What does this all add up to? More than a jumble, I hope. What I’m trying to say is that life doesn’t move in straight lines. We have lots of chances to start again if we look hard enough. We’re imperfect and conflicted and puffy-eyed. We’re alternately burdened and strengthened by our pasts, but we always have the power to rebound. We have another shot on the golf course. A new job. A fresh morning. A chance to ask forgiveness. Another picnic with another cliff. We may have doubts, but СКАЧАТЬ