So, I know multiple people whom have begun their thirties in fairly dramatic fashion.
One of my best friends was arrested ten minutes before actually turning 30. Whilst driving home. Not knowing that there were bunches of folks waiting in her apartment to surprise her.
Another friend of mine rang in her 30th birthday in London. At a legit rave. With her parents.
Numerous friends of mine turned 30 and got engaged, cradled their newborn instead of a bottle of bubbly, got promoted, got demoted, got more schwasted than they'd been in years in an effort to give their 21st birthday a run for its money.
And one of my dearest friends got treated to a 13-course Chef's Pairing/Wine Tasting at Le Bernardin. Like ya do. (GIRRRRRRL, YOU FANCY!!!)
I had begun to think that I had escaped the dramatic entrance into my thirties and, truthfully, I was feeling pretty ok about that.
...
I finally got my meeting with a legit agent the Friday after turning the Big Dirty. Finally. After years and years of wanting to just click with someone and spark their interest and be able to walk in the door of their office, it was actually happening.
I was. Ecstatic.
I had signed up for yet another workshop-meet-and-greet kinda deal, only this time, with an agent that I knew one of my friends was already signed with (which, FYI, is an incredibly smart and pseudo-necessary move in the pursuit of a legit agent).
I walked in, and killed my scene. (Hell yes, I did.)
She smiled, said nice things, I most likely got kinda flushed, and we started chatting. And lo and behold, one of the other two agents in her office was a sweet gal I went to undergrad with.
I had NO idea. None. And damn, that felt serendipitous.
And, the next week, said sweet gal emailed me to set up an appointment to meet with her team.
I ran home with a new old pair of green jeans in tow (just because) and squealed like a maniac to a boy and a dog all freaking night. ALL night. I was peeing my pants. Really. (Not really. Metaphorically? I guess?). I didn't want to set myself up too hard with any grand super amazing expectations, but I KNEW. I knewww that this was going to be a good thing.
I did.
Two and a half weeks later, we finally met that Friday, the Friday post Dirty.
And I wasn't nervous, I wasn't jittery, I didn't doubt a thing, I just knew.
And we just sat there and talked, just talked, for an hour. It wasn't weird, it wasn't awkward, we didn't even sort of have a shortage of things to say: there was New York, there was acting, there was professional connections, there was cleaning up resumes...there was undergrad, there was shoes--cute ones and Crocs, there was Judy Greer, and Arrested Development, and the necessity of coffee, and our collective complete lack of computer related knowhow. It was just so fun.
Honestly. It was fun.
And they said that I was "delightful", and I giggled like an idiot. And they said that I "certainly seemed like I had (my) stuff together", and I blushed...again. And they said they'd have to have a meeting to "talk about (me) behind my back", and I said that that was fine, because of course it was.
Of COURSE it was!
Because I walked away from that meeting feeling like I'd made friends in that room. I walked away knowing that that was the beginning of a sweet relationship and, goddammit, it felt great. And refreshing. And like a huge relief but, more than anything, just...nice.
Nice.
And overdue.
...
The holidays come, and they go.
And everyone takes their time during the holidays, and they should, so I didn't fret over not having heard anything in two weeks. Rather, I simply did my part and briefly rolled away from my Christmas danish to email a Hello and Happy New Year...and immediately rolled back to resume working on my holiday pudge. And I felt great about it. (All of it.)
...
It is now January 2nd. The holidays have given up on themselves, and I awake to an email.
It is the sweet gal. And her email is sweet. And it is kind.
And it is not at all what I want to hear.
"We feel you conflict with a few of our women, so it won't be going further at this time together."
Oh.
She says things are shifting around at the office, that's she's happy that we reconnected and "Please contact me again around March."
And there it was, my dramatic entrance: 30, and rejected. Ring the bells, Y'all.
People say not to bother getting heartbroken over things that are completely out of your hands and beyond your control. "Why worry about it? Don't worry about it! There's nothing you could have done about it, so why be sad?!"
So. That's bullshit, right? Kinda?
I fucking wanted it. When people get the opposite of things that they want (slash, for better or worse, think that they deserve), it is a sad moment.
Clark Griswold gets a subscription to the Jelly of the Month Club as opposed to a Christmas bonus.
Ralphie Parker gets a C+ instead of an A+! (+! +! +! +! +!...).
Elle Woods gets broken up with instead of proposed to.
I think that I'm going to join an agency, hitch up with some awesome new advocates for my career, and not only am I sadly mistaken, I am told that they already have someone like me.
It is both a tragic stereotype and absolute truism of the actor that we continually fight against being seen as "ordinary", "inauthentic", "done". We want to think that we're unique. That we're a new, refreshing thing. That we are extraordinary, and a thing that you long to have.
Finding out just how many "Yous" exist in the world is a shock to the system.
Hearing that at least one other pseudo-You exists in the family of a really appealing agency just smarts.
A lot.
And I sat back feeling like a douche. Like a teary-eyed douche. An angry, confused, teary-eyed douche, while my boyfriend turned away from playing Call of Duty to grab my hand, because he's the nicest and has, unfortunately, had to deal with me being an emotional douche what feels like quite a lot as of late.
Because I'm 30. 'Member that time I turned 30? I 'member that time....
"You will get an agent, Angela."
I hope so.
"You will."
When though?
"Well..."
When?
"... ...I don't know."
And that When-question has very quickly become old, and more important.
And I'm not giving up on it, because that'd be dumb, and I'm too stubborn. And I stubbornly feel like I have something to give.
But. I'm anxious. I am anxious, dammit. I would like to know when it's going to be "My Turn", and if there's a thing that I need to do to bring about "My Turn".
Maybe that's just reconnecting with these ladies in March. And I will.
Maybe that's just shaking hands that I haven't shaken yet. And I will.
...Maybe that's sending out baskets of cookies and/or Edible Arrangements and/or singing telegrams to every agent in the New York City-area. I don't know.
I don't know what it is, but I've got to do it.
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