Negative replays soon sprang to mind like so many mental arcade gophers. I was bound contractually not to reveal anything about the details of the show, not even to my husband, who had not attended the taping. As my episode would not air until June, it was a long time to live in revisionist exile. Reprieve came when the show was suddenly slated for early December, and, a temporary small town heroine, I was fêted by friends and family. Privately, I continued to berate myself, and since it was football season, I indulged in a fair amount of Monday morning you-know-what.
One day I stopped. I thought about a surfing lesson I’d taken a few years earlier in Hawaii. The instructor’s mantra was don’t look down, focus on the shore, and yet with each attempt to stand up on the board, I’d check my foot position and boom! I was bobbing in Hanalei Bay. Finally I picked an electric blue roof as a focal point and refused to peek at my feet. I sailed easily along. When I felt the board’s fin clutch wet sand and I sidestepped off, I had to fight the delightful urge to pirouette.
When eyes are fixed firmly on a dream, great things happen. The day of the taping I overheard someone say that ten thousand people apply for a slot on the show each year. Three hundred are accepted. Getting there was the point; I had achieved a long term goal. Life lesson learned.