Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Some days you're the shoe, and some days you're the gum.

That's what you're wearing?
Seriously? We need to talk.

Friday was a bad day. I entered the nadir zone of the 'flu on the same day that I was supposed to hear the verdict on a job I interviewed for in December that I really, really want. I recommend avoiding this conjunction of events if it ever comes up on your radar. Bad, bad juju.

I say "supposed to hear" because I didn't. Interviewing is like dating, isn't it? The nervous sweat; the inner monologue about body language, manners, grammar, coordination (I am prone to dropping things, knocking things over, or tripping. Never accept coffee or spaghetti sauce. Avoid stairs); the flashes of paranoia about hygiene issues. So you wait by the phone, willing it to ring, and it does, and it's your dentist reminding you of your appointment next week.

At one point my husband said, "honey...they're just not that into you."

Add fever, muscle aches, coughing, watery eyes, sniffling-sneezing-so-you-can't rest etc, and Friday was a Pity ParTAY. I demanded lavish and audible pity from everyone within reach. I may have called some friends just to insist they pity me. By 5 p.m. I was about as much fun as a wounded feral pit bull. I could hear my husband and daughter quietly conferring on a strategy to lure me into the back yard and trap me in the crawl space to await the Animal Control truck.

I know it's not just crazy people who endure the litany of despair and self-loathing prompted by the interview process, but being a pity junkie I insist that it's worse for Us (me). We (I) am special, and need more understanding and reassurance than others, DESERVE more, it's my RIGHT to expect it and your responsibility to provide it...

Aren't you glad you don't live with me? That I can only torture you in print?

Sunday night the fever finally broke. I realized this after the fact when I noticed I was wearing several layers including fleece pjs and had cranked my electric blanket up to 10 because I couldn't get warm with 2 regular blankets even though the ambient temperature was above 60. So, Monday dawned bright with promise. Freed from bodily misery I had nothing to distract me from wracking my nerves about the job. And I had a little epiphany about the upside of mental illness:

Since my perceptions about myself, other people, and the world in general are so unreliable, when I think it all sucks, chances are I'm wrong.

Le Chaim, y'all.

[Possibly contributing to the bleak mood was my involvement in a local production of The Diary of Anne Frank. Which may have been a bad decision given my vivid imagination, compulsion for historical research, proclivity toward nightmares and sleep disorders, and the fact that I have a 13 year old daughter. Dope slap me upside the head.]

[Furthering Friday's self-loathing was the moment about 11 p.m. when I realized it was Athena's birthday and I had not called or nothin.]

1 comment:

  1. Here's what I have to say about all this pity... You think YOU've got problems! Oy!

    Well, you do. I despise the interviewing process. It's demoralizing. One of my favorite songs begins it's lengthy ramble through my head when I have to do crappy interviews, etc. "I know that you think you're not good for anything. The world makes you feel so small."

    "But it was a GOOD interview!," you say. "I did my best!"

    At least, this was what John said when he heard from Hickory that they didn't want him. He wandered the house for the next week in a dark funk that could not even be remedied with chocolate cake. Now that, my friend, is dark. And I ain't talking about the chocolate.


    He learned that the only reason he didn't get the position was because they decided to hire a "favorite son" who once served as their associate and the truth is, John never stood a chance. I mean, this guy doesn't even have interim training. Nada. Pissed off the hubster, but at least it wasn't his interviewing skills.

    May I suggest that this could very well be what happened here? Lancaster is a small town and everybody is related except for those of us who hail from other climes. We are (I am) simply foreign. Never mind how much time one has spent in the area or contributed to its many needs. And never mind how thick your accent or whether or not anyone knows your Daddy. You won't get the cherry picked jobs because they're reserved for Aunty Beulah and cousin Mildred.

    So, now that I have further depressed you, I honestly do hope you feel better and find a kick a** job soon. But you miss your calling perhaps? Don't you have a master's degree in History? Try applying to the university. Surely a degree from Harvard holds some water somewhere. They frequently look for summer profs who are not trying to make a living off their salary. I do not know if they insist on the whole "Dr." thing, but I'm thinking not. Just a thought. (You can send a resume and a charming cover letter to Ron Cox. Tell him I sent you and will make him do extra levels on the elliptical if he doesn't at least give you a hearing.) Something to consider, mull over, query about.

    I really must see you soon. I have some stuff to talk over with a friend. I can think of no one better than you to bounce these things off of. ???