Interview Schminterview

Yesterday morning I had another interview. I didn't mention it before because I didn't want to jinx it, but it happened. I went in for a marketing position, and I came out with a new friend.

Not really, but that would have been a really cute story.

In keeping with the whole Spooktober thing (I'll think of a better name soon), imagine that the interview took place in this creepy mansion:

But in reality, it was in a low, boxy building: the kind of place with four entrances, but only one way in. Of course, the door I needed only had a tiny parking lot outside, so I had to park in a far-off lot and dash along the rainy street, hoping that no cars drove by and splashed my neatly pressed pantsuit. Because Pennsylvania doesn't believe in sidewalks.

This was also the first place I've been to where I was required to wear one of those clip-on visitor passes with elastic so you can pull out the tag and snap it back derisively. It was very fancy. The receptionist looked just like Amy Poehler, which immediately put me at ease. She asked me to sign in, then left me alone in the waiting area to replay Parks and Rec episodes in my head until a young, friendly-looking lady came to fetch me.

We chatted and joked as she led me through a labyrinth of cubicles, and I was so delighted that this wouldn't be another interview with a middle-aged man I had no chance of connecting with . . . until she introduced me to David and left me there to flounder and die.

David was a thin, eccentric-looking man who kept intense eye contact - the sort of person who would tell you his name seven times in a row and then offer you a cherry soda before shouting, "You've got the job, you precious creature!"

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Instead, he made a comment about the rain and then immediately started explaining the position in remarkable detail. Without any chance to build up a rapport and make some uncomfortable jokes to relieve my nerves, I fixated on my body: the way my arms were hanging, how tightly my fists were clenched, whether my mouth was doing that twitchy half-smile, how wide my eyes were open, if I really were swaying from side to side in my chair.

I stumbled my way through his questions, as he demanded I prove my competence in Microsoft Office. How can we be sure you know what you're doing in Powerpoint? Your degree is in English and you look like a twelve-year-old!

After fifteen minutes of this, I was introduced to David's boss, a capable-looking woman who quizzed me on Excel charts and looked at me like I had set the feminist movement back sixty years. Little did she know that I had bought my navy pantsuit in the little boys' section of the department store. How's that for equality, Sharon!

Interviews are the worst, but somehow I tend to forget that in the days leading up to them. I'm always really confident on the drive over, listening to Beyonce and telling myself that this time, I will articulate my qualifications and answer their questions with intelligence and poise! This time, I'll charm the pants right off 'em, but only metaphorically because I'm not that kind of girl! This time, they won't have to offer me some water halfway through because I'm so dehydrated from all the nervous sweating!

And every time, I start off strong, but each interview seems to end the same.

"Are you alright?" they ask, leaning forward with a concerned look.

Right in the middle of my story about a time I overcame an obstacle in the workplace. Rude.

"Yes?" I say.

"Oh!" They put a hand to their chests and let out a relieved laugh. "I thought you were having a stroke. Well, thanks for coming in, Cara, we'll let you know in about a week."

So I trudged back to my car and drove home in the rain, almost hitting an Amish man with my car on the way out.

Image via Shadowmill Productions.