I had a job interview this afternoon that I was pretty excited for. That’s a strong statement considering I spent a large part of the weekend researching foxy boxing as my next career move. The job I interviewed for had so much potential; great location, gorgeous office, creative environment, nice salary and most importantly—I would be one of only three women in the entire office (although it’s been so long since I’ve worked with a guy, I think my idea of office flirting is throwing a box of condoms at a guy’s head and shouting “SUIT UP SOLDIER!” while doing Shooter McGowan hands).
This afternoon, wearing my one conservative office outfit, I was feeling confident as I went into the interview. I’m pretty over-qualified for the job, so I just had to maintain composure and I was sure I’d bag it within the hour. What I failed to realize is that it’s hard to maintain composure when you don’t have a lot of it to begin with.
To start, I showed up to the interview sweating like a fat kid at soccer camp. I drove to the interview in my dad’s Jeep, which doesn’t have air conditioning, and holy hell does that car get hot. I was cooking in that boxy little oven like I was the House Special. What didn’t help is that part of my token professional outfit is a heavy black knit jacket. Of course I opted to wear the world’s laciest bra under the world’s most sheer white top. So unless my interviewer (Maria from marketing) digs chicks who sweat profusely and flirt by throwing condoms, I had to keep that knitted bitch on. I also took a nice jog before arriving at the office thanks to a major dyslexic moment that landed me ten blocks too far down M street. Nothing says composure like a sweaty girl with frizzy hair gasping for breath.
As I sat in my interview trying to discreetly mop the sweat from my brow, I came to a frightening realization. Earlier that morning I got one of those small cuts shaving my legs that won’t clot no matter how much pressure is applied. It was about the time when Maria was explaining the firm’s in-house printing procedure that I realized I still had a comical fake tattoo band-aid (the only band-aid we had in the house) on my knee cap. Of what tattoo? A giant pair of flaming dice. I had two options: Take it off under the table, running the risk that I’m still bleeding and might have to leave the office with blood streaming down my leg, or leave the novelty band-aid on, cross my legs like I have to viciously pee and pray she doesn’t look down. I chose the latter. Having 23 years experience of dealing with awkward situations on a daily basis, I must say I handled myself pretty well and managed to nail the interview. It was when we stood up to shake hands and part ways that Maria looked down at my uncrossed legs and said, “…do you have a sticker of dice on your knee?” to which I awkwardly laughed, “Hah! No, it’s a tattoo band-aid…perfect for interviews, right?” and was received by crickets.
A few hours after my interview, my creative recruiter called me to let me know what the company thought. She said they loved me and I was the most qualified candidate they had, but were going to offer the position to another person who had an architecture degree first, but the job is mine if she turns it down.” And now I want to break things. It’s not an architectural job, it’s a print design job! An architect is not a trained print designer! I can make a mean gingerbread house but I don’t walk around calling myself an architect.
God damnit. I can’t even get a job as an assistant at a law firm or something because I didn’t major in anything administration related (even though I have a black belt in faxing and getting yelled at).
You know those people who tell you to pick your major based on your passion because ultimately doing what you’re passionate about will make you happy, not what will make you the most money? Those people can kiss my indebted ass. I majored in what I was passionate about and a year after graduation, the thrill is gone and the flame has fizzled. Good thing my backup is in Art History. You know, so I can professionally be that friend who’s irritating to take to museums because they keep nonchalantly saying the date of everything like a smug asshole.
I’ve decided I would like to return my college education. I’m serious. It really did not work out and I would greatly appreciate my money back, thank you. I without a doubt did not learn $152,000 worth of anything. Here’s what I learned in my four years spent at American University: feminists are an extremely sensitive group of people, trilobites have over 15,000 eyes; charcoal is hard to get off ipods and clothing; never drink a bottle and a half of wine on an empty stomach; Picasso had a 13-year-old hooker mistress; the hyoid is the only non-articulated bone in the body; cheap vodka can be filtered in a Brita; utility knives are fuckin’ sharp and should not be used when sleep deprived; and scientific documentaries about the Black Death have awesome soundtracks. That’s the ballgame. I would estimate that bundle of knowledge is worth a coupon for a free scoop at Ben & Jerry’s.
And at this point, knowing what’s in my bank account, I would totally take it.