The Interview
Remember when I didn’t win 1.5 billion dollars?
Making good on my resolve to find gainful, monetised employment instead of gambling, I recently took the first step, scrolling through listing after listing on all the jobs sites available out on the scary world wide web.
Scanning the classifieds turned out to be quite an intimidating experience for someone whose last interview was over 20 years ago. One does feel rather insecure and incapable. All these new fangled things employers want one to know, many of them with names that sound like a script from a bad sci-fi movie. How could one know if one could perform the task if one did not even know what was being described. What was one to do?
Then it occurred to me: good old fashion cronyism, of course!
I immediately contacted an old boyfriend who has since become frightfully successful — though in a different city. But he must know people here who could give me a job. So I asked if he’d play Will Gardner to my Alicia Florrick. Before one could say “Bob’s yer uncle”, he came through with an interview for a position as a copywriter with a major marketing & advertising company. Hurrah! I was filled with hope and optimism.
The interview was scheduled for a week away. Right, thought I, better get that resume updated (check!), the portfolio put together (check!), review new interview do’s-and-dont’s (check!), research the company in question (check!), online ‘C.S.I.’ the interviewer (check!) and most important of all, stop looking like an aged, dowdy housewife (ugh, not quite).
Five days before the scheduled potential life-changer, I plucked, shaved, masked, trimmed, manicured, exfoliated, whitened, and exercised my way to a new, professional me.
Then the day arrived. I was ready. I’d rehearsed numerous interview scenarios. Practiced smiling and laughing without looking like a clown. Tried out different sitting positions, finally selecting one that exuded easy confidence, yet expressing eagerness and a strong work ethic. I dressed in my best clothes. Wore make-up — nothing too garish. Used perfume — just a mist. Brushed my teeth and flossed for good measure. Gargled with full strength, original Listerine for an eternity. Then set forth.
Arriving at the swanky offices that seem to characterise all ad agencies, I was asked to take a seat at the reception and my interviewer (let’s call her Ms Fortune) will be with me shortly. As I sat there watching the award winning ads (some not so award winning) created by the company play on an endless loop on the reception jumbotron, I was filed with optimism and hope, thinking “I can do this!”
OK, that’s a lie. I was terrified. My mind was a chaos of “I can’t do this! Oh god, who am I kidding. I’m old. I’m fat. Oh she’s a pretty girl — what, wait! Is she snickering at me? She is! She’s laughing at me! I shouldn’t be here. OH. no, she was laughing with whoever she’s chatting with on the phone. Phew! FFS! My suit is crinkled! Ugh!!!! I shouldn’t have worn this — it’s too formal. It’s not cool. I’m not cool. Damn! I broke a nail! Oh good god are those age spots on my hands?!” And just as Ms Fortune showed up, I suddenly felt a strong urge to pee. Too late.
As I followed this chirpy, self-assured, well-groomed executive at least 15 years younger than I to her office, she made small chat by asking after the ex-boyfriend, waxing lyrical about his company and his creative genius, and seems very much like she was trying to ascertain how well I knew him, how much my influence held sway, and if he was looking for staff — or as they called it in the industry — talent.
Listening to her, I felt crushed by an enormous weight of defeat and insignificance. Then I sighed — a mortifying little wheeze as the air left the body, no doubt audible to her and anyone close by. But she did not react. Perhaps she did not hear. And damn, I still need to pee. Calm the f*** down, I dejectedly shouted at myself. Pull yourself together, woman! We reached her office and sat down as I was still mentally berating myself. With Herculean effort, I sat in my power posture, smiled amiably and crossed my fingers for the tide (and conversation) to turn. The next 45-minutes was an easy banter of work description, work experience, perks, company ethos, personal needs, and by the end of it, I started to feel borderline confident again, and began to lose the urge to visit the loo.
This is going well, I told myself. This is good. As we walked to the lift together, she’s asking to see more of my work. Yes of course, I’ll email them over. Thank you so much for your time. I enjoyed meeting you. Thank you for coming. Yes, it was so lovely to meet you. Say “hi” to him for me. Et cetera. Et cetera. Then, just as my lift showed up, she suddenly said, “here, let me give you a hug, you look like you could use it.” And did.
Well.
Needless to say, there was no further response to my emails. No calls were returned. And I am still unemployed. My friends tell me I should sue. Sexual harassment. This is America! You can’t hug people. It’s inappropriate. Sue her! Sue the company! Sue everyone!
Perhaps. But for now, I think I’m just going to crawl back to bed.
