The Polka Dot Theory

Many years ago, I came across the cutest polka-dotted black swimsuit from a new brand back home (that became fast fashion later) called Chemistry. It was a two-piece with a super-short frilly skirt and a top that complemented your body in the best way. I was hesitant and indecisive, and could not think of an occasion where I’d wear it without feeling conscious in my skin.

So I passed.

I’ve rued the day since. And it’s been more than a decade. I have not found anything remotely as fun or cute, and I’ve bought a lot of swimwear. The polka dot swimsuit remains, to this day, the one that got away.

Now, whenever a decision turns to regret, my friend invokes it like a verdict on my ruminating, crying-over-spilt-milk tendencies. She tells me I desire it so strongly precisely because I can no longer have it. That if I could or did, half its appeal would go.

Maybe there is some truth to that. But there is more truth to a lesser-known, more insidious devil called self-rejection. It’s fear dressed as good judgement, politely and convincingly doing you a disservice.

I’d like to believe I haven’t self-rejected myself when it has mattered most. Some mysterious higher power has stopped me from self-sabotage.

I remember Jan 2023 as one of the low points in my career. I had worked like someone possessed on two of the highest-stakes, most visible flagship projects in the organisation. It left me spent and very proud. I got the opportunity in the first place because the team had become too lean and someone needed to step up. I was the willing worker with little choice in the matter. I completed both with the highest standards of efficiency and finesse (and I’m saying this without bias). I had given everything I had, and then some.

But no promotion came. It was a cruel blow. And I had been in the organisation for four years. A colleague I respected and enjoyed working with offered me a role in her team that I immediately said yes to. I was desperate for a change, and it felt like a small miracle coming to me in my time of need. It was as good as done, and I dutifully informed my boss and super-boss as instructed.  I almost even had an Eric Cartman moment. Except at the very last minute, in the middle of retail bank migration, the headcount didn’t get approved.

I was, as they say, royally screwed. The universe had played its Uno Reverse card on me. Now my superiors knew I wanted to jump ship without any ship to jump to. I briefly contemplated quitting without a backup, but common sense and middle-class upbringing prevailed. I bent my head and ploughed on.

The thing about near-misses and desires that seem within reach is that they give you a glimpse of what’s possible. A good life, perhaps, if it’s one for you, but if not, a dress rehearsal for the real deal.

Had that role come through, and I’d switched teams as planned, I would have been ineligible to apply for any other position for a full year. The London dream would have been, ironically, bureaucratically impossible. And I would never have known what I missed out on.

So, of course, God, the universe or powers-that-be would have none of that.

Instead, I got an email from HR ten days before the deadline for all IJPs I was applying en masse to would officially close. It was a ‘technical’ interview with the hiring team for a role I knew little about and felt entirely unsuitable for. And it was a level up in seniority. I almost wrote a "I think there has been a mistake” email, asking them to remove my name from the process, before the tiny voice in my head screamed, “don’t you dare”.

So before the door closed, I held on to the crack of light with all my might and sat for the interview. The kindest interviewer on the other side of the screen put me completely at ease and told me they had enough techy people in the company. Now they needed a content expert, someone a lot like me. The rest, as they say, is the London story. A life I often dreamed about but never believed possible for myself. And it almost didn't happen because of me.

Which brings me back to the Polka Dot Theory. As a sentimental being, I might go, oh well for a frilly, polka-dotted reminder of what I couldn’t have, and that's ok. At the end of the day, what’s meant for you will stay (whether it’s people, experiences, or cute swimwear), even when you stand squarely in your own way.

Something nudges you while you are typing apologetic words and taking yourself out of your own life. A moment of clarity or reflection from the best version of yourself. And on days that you aren’t and hit send, you make your peace with the dress rehearsal. For even as a child, you remember instances of fearing the worst in an unusually solemn school environment, only to witness help arrive in shapes you didn’t think to ask for.

If the gap between what I thought I wanted and what I got has taught me anything, it's that my imagination, despite my strictest confidence in it, is limited. It has consistently undersold what’s waiting on the other side.