A few months ago, socialite Tinsley Mortimer held a casting call for her still-yet-to-be-scheduled reality show in Boston. The show was to be called Society Girls, and in front of its cameras a handful of socialites from a across the country would compete in different challenges, from schmoozing to philanthropy and manners. The winner would be deemed the "It Girl" and along with this title she would land the personal mentorship of Tinsley, as well as some ridiculous prizes like an "internship" at Vogue and an apartment on Park Avenue. Per my boss's suggestion, I went to the casting with intentions of blogging about it for Boston magazine's website.

But to my surprise, the casting agents looooved me. They were interested in me as a contestant on the show. The loved my Southern accent, manners, and that, despite the fact that I declined the invitation from the Symphony League in Jackson, Mississippi where I grew up, I come from a family that includes actual debutants. They loved that I am a fashion editor. They loved that I go out most nights of the week. They loved that my charity of choice is Hurricane Katrina relief. They loved that I am blonde. So, the casting duo urged me to fill out the novel-length Q&A, and caving to their flattery, I went through with not only the form but a video interview that would be sent to Tinsley herself.

I left the casting session laughing. It was a good story to tell, I thought. And, after all, I had no desire to be on a reality show. Heck, I don't even watch reality television with the exception of America's Next Top Model. In fact, usually, I am against the medium altogether.

Then, I got a call informing me that I had been chosen as a finalist for the show. The voice on the other end of the phone revealed that there were less than 20 of us in the running for 10 on-air spots. And that I should keep my weekend clear because there was a good chance I would be whisked to New York to film the Society Girls pilot.

Suddenly, I wanted it. It was all I could think about. The idea of picking up on a dime to do something so outrageous was thrilling. I talked to my boss about taking time off. I even sized up my closet, considering which dresses would look good on camera. I went on a diet.

Meanwhile, my friends and coworkers thought the idea of tuning in for my dramatic antics was a riot, they advised me not to do it. Career suicide, they called it. Some said it was like whoring myself.

Funny thing is that I agreed with them. But I still wanted it.

Almost a week later, I was so tired of waiting on the verdict that I had resumed a light consumption of carbs, when I found out I had not made the cut.

At once bummed and relieved, I was finally able to survey the feelings I had experienced on the reality casting rollercoaster. I realized, I had never actually wanted to be on the show. I just didn't want to be rejected. It was that whole "Pick me! Choose me! Love me!" complex that makes me roll my eyes and feign vomiting. But embarrassingly enough, in this case, I had those same feelings but with nothing redeeming them. This was purely fear of rejection.

And since then, I've realized that I do this all the time, at work, with friends and family, and--especially--with guys. Maybe I'll have interest at first, but when I lose it, I want them to keep wanting me. It's not that I think this is a novel complex. I'm sure most girls suffer from it. But it was a big deal when, through a potential role on a reality show, I realized how affected I am by it.

Since that realization, I definitely still suffer. And maybe in a more self-indulgent way because I know I'm doing it. However, I can now be upfront about it, with myself and with the guy (or coworker, family member, friend) that I'm selfishly hoping won't reject me first. Recently, I told one guy straight up, "I'm not really interested in you in that way. But I don't want you to reject me." It spawned temporary self-loathing but then I felt okay about it. At least I was honest. And though I probably came off as a completely narcissistic diva to the guy, somehow, saying it out loud made those feelings dissipate faster than if I had kept them inside.

So thank you, reality TV. For helping me learn to tackle my fear of rejection head on.