Here we go again...
Mentally preparing for an interview: a stream of consciousness
Wake up. Shake the sleep out of my eyes. Look at my dog. She's not happy to be up this early. Neither am I. Where are my power underwear? I don't have a pair of power underwear. Let's add that to the job hunting checklist. Buy/Assign power underwear. These will have to work. Oh Lord I'm going to go down in flames! No you're not. Positive thinking! Let's repeat our mantra. I am better than the plasma donation center. I am better than the plasma donation center.
Right, okay. I'm not going to self-sabotage. (Looking in the mirror) Dear God! Why didn't I blow dry my hair last night? I'm definitely sabotaging myself. Ugh, Mom told me to dry it too. Now she's got another thing to say 'I told you so' about. It's okay. We'll use Laine's Chi (fancy, high-powered hair straightener). Believe in the Chi. Okay the hair now vaguely resembles something humanoid. I wonder if I can dip into Laine's makeup bag without her noticing. She gets unreasonably upset about me sharing all of her things. Better not risk it. She's wandering around and I don't know how much coffee she's had yet. I'll borrow Mom's.
Wow, when was the last time I put on mascara? I hope I don't stab myself in the eye. That's why I stopped wearing mascara. Too many eye stabbings. It doesn't even look like I'm wearing makeup. Maybe I'm doing this wrong. Or maybe my face absorbs makeup like a giant sponge. God knows my pores are big enough. Did I brush my teeth? Yes. No. I'll do it again. Where are all of my bras? How is it possible for every single regular bra to make a biblical-style exodus from the house? Why didn't I lay this out last night? Yep, this is definitely self-sabotage. I'm going down. Hard. Focus! Ok, there's one in Mom's drawer. Man these blazers are heavy. And sweaty. At least it's thick enough that he won't be able to see the sweat. Hopefully. I look like a kid playing dress up. This guy is going to see right through me. Come on! You got this! Remember confidence is sexy.
Holy crap look at my eyebrows! Mrs. Sasquatch would judge me for those. Will my eyebrows be too red if I pluck now? No, I can't go in there looking like Frida Kahlo, even if my eyebrows are splotchy.
Careful. Careful. Okay I'm ready.
Alright getting in the van. Nothing inspires confidence like the battered, cracked, big red van. Wow the back window is dirty. That's what I call a ghetto tint job. Hmmm I need to find a power jam to get psyched up. Bad Romance. Meh. Wait, oh ya, here we go.
I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
True, but let's find something more uplifting. Oooh I got the moves like Jagger. I'll make sure to mention that when he asks about my strengths. No, probably I'll only remember Laine’s suggestion for how to interview at a bank: "I have a long line of customers. They like to leave deposits in my vault and they always leave satisfied." That's definitely the only thing I'm going to remember.
I'm an hour early. Should I go to McDonalds? I only ate a handful of Frosted Miniwheats for breakfast. What was I thinking? I'll be picking those little wheat bits out of my teeth all day. No McDonalds. I'll smell like grease and that could have real gaseous repercussions. I'm already feeling the rumblings of a little anxiety gas. Should I hold it in or let it go now? What if it lingers? That would be disastrous. Better play it safe.
What am I going to do for an hour? I guess I'll write. This pen is leaving my fingers blue. Brilliant. Whoops there goes the playing it safe plan. At least I have a half hour for it to dissapate. How early should I go in? I don't want to seem too desperate, but also don't want to seem like I don't care. Is ten minutes too early? Should I leave the car with ten minutes to spare or get inside ten minutes early. Oh God, here I go.
There is a long gap where I barely remember anything he asks. Then:
"What is your dream job? "
I hem and haw. It's not to be a bank teller. I can tell you that. I've been too vague. He asks again.
"Being a bestselling author."
Apparently this is the wrong answer. But it would have been too obvious if I'd said I want to be the CEO of the bank, right?
Blarg. This one is going down in flames too, but at least no one has asked me to relate a story about tomato sauce. Maybe I'm too honest. I blame my pastor parents for all those spankings. Although even my dad tells me to lie when I relate the experience later. Or be creative with the truth. I usually save that for blogging, but I guess I'll have to apply it in interviews from now on.
-Shadow
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