Dress is business professional, the email inviting me to an interview stated, and even though it would no longer fit, I was suddenly wishing I still had my interviewing suit.
It was a light brown, wool suit that perfectly coordinated with the brown pumps I gave away when my third pregnancy flattened out my feet further, causing all of my shoes to be too small. I would wear this suit with one of the few silk blouses I ever owned, this one an emerald green. I felt invincible in this suit although it never really did for me what it was supposed to do.
I had walked into the offices where Mademoiselle Magazine is published in the Conde Nast building on Fifth Avenue in New York City wearing that suit many years ago. It was my one claim-to-fame interview, an interview that could have changed my life.
Clutching my portfolio and trying to keep a smile on my face, I chatted with an editor who was quite advanced in her pregnancy, perhaps so far along that she had not gotten the memo that retracted my invitation. But somehow I was invited to interview even though I would be told later there was never a position and it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe that is how rejection letters are written in NYC.
Before I knew there was no chance that I could be granted one of the copy editor positions, sitting across the desk from that editor made me feel like I was someone important. I sat wearing that beautiful suit, wondering if I got the job what I would wear the next day since she was already seeing my best, well, my only. She would tell me about ten minutes into the interview that she normally did not talk to prospective employees that long, before continuing on for another ten minutes. She seemed to want to instill hope in me. Maybe she saw herself as me, a small-town girl longing for an opportunity in the big city. I have no idea where she was from. Maybe she was not thinking clearly. Pregnancy does that.
Back to the matter of the suit. I settled for a dress, black with white polka-dots and even though it was a hot day in the South, I absolutely needed to wear a jacket to fulfill the professional requirement. Another problem. I still have the black jacket I have worn to many interviews in the more recent past. I call it my journalism jacket and wear it once in awhile, even though it no longer can be buttoned. It did not go with the dress. So I thought I would take a risk and wear something that expresses my sense of style and go with the vintage black jacket that I love. Pumps, pearls, red lipstick, and I was ready to take on the world.
Arriving 15 minutes early, I thought I would show that I was a serious contender. Walking into a nondescript office along a row of other nondescript offices in no way excited me. A rug and a wall painted a bright shade of green adorned the room. KLOVE permeated the airwaves. I heard one member of the staff say to her coworker that she takes everything back to the Bible. An antique-looking bottle of water was set out with small plastic cups. A Keurig coffee machine with styrofoam coffee cups, next to it. A version of Chicken Soup for the Soul is available on a corner table.
Having never been part of a group interview, I imagined four, maybe five, candidates sitting around a circle with the employer and maybe his staff joining in with questions. I thought maybe we would do an ice breaker exercise as though we were at a retreat or book study. I was the second interviewee to arrive, followed by eleven others. After we had taken all of the chairs in the waiting room, late-comers were ushered into a bigger, more open room where we would all eventually go.
What became immediately noticeable was that no one had dressed in business professional, but me. Several of the women had worn pants, but not really the kind that would go with a jacket. Some looked like they had put forth an effort; others not so much. I wondered if these girls even had pearls and pumps. They appeared to be young, single, and uneducated. With the exception of the woman who said she had an 18-year-old grandchild, I am pretty sure I reigned supreme as the elder woman, which was in no way an advantage.
After a brief introduction by the employer looking to hire one of us, we were each given two minutes to say who we were, where we were from, what was one unique thing about us, and how we inspired others. This is not what I was expecting. The first woman was called up front, as my mind swirled with possible answers. Suddenly, my name was called and I had to stand before the group. I had no idea what I was going to say. It was as though I had been transported back to Mrs. B.'s speech class on impromptu speech day when we had to draw a slip of paper out of a bag on our way to the podium to expound upon a topic. There is no slower, more painful death for me than that.
I wanted to connect with this potential employer and made a point of saying that I came from his home state though I had relocated here long ago. I was the only one in the room who could say that. I do not think it helped.
Trying to pick out a unique thing about me is the wrong question. Maybe I should try to choose one normal thing about me because there may only be one or two. To qualify myself by Myers-Briggs personality types, I am an INFJ and there is less than one percent of people like me. I need to associate meaning with everything I do. I am considered mystical and hard to get to know. I am always writing something in my head. I have to work hard to pretend to fit these job descriptions. I am a people person. HA! If you count the people I spend time with in books and movies, I am a very popular girl. Outgoing. That is completely a matter of perspective. I can be friendly. Really. Unique, on the other hand, is how I have been described from the beginning. I am usually the only redhead in the room. I have unique issues that plague me. I have many untold stories because I have yet to find someone who can relate to them. Uniquely qualified. Why didn't I say that?
Having no idea what the appropriate answer should be, I said the unique thing about me is that I used to live in Colorado, ride a bicycle, camp, and hike. I have no idea what bearing that had on anything or anyone. No one in the room seemed to register with the concept of living in the West or doing anything quite so athletic. It seemed to suggest that I was once in shape and healthy. Once.
On to how I inspire others. I am a writer. It is what I do best. It is how I inspire. It had nothing to do with this job. Having not formulated an answer to that one either, I heard myself telling the group that each morning on Facebook I post a quote with accompanying picture that is thought-provoking and hopefully uplifting to help those suffering with loss, illness, and the troubles of life so they can find a little something to get their day started right. I saw a glimmer of connection on the faces of these young women when I mentioned social media. The inspiration stopped there.
I would then listen to the rest of the interviewees, one by one, standing before the group telling us their unique qualities and how they inspire. I wondered how many of these girls had gone to college. I wondered what their grades were in high school. I wondered how I had ended up in this room among them. I felt punished, the butt of a cosmic joke. I tried not to let my mind wander as one of them said the most unique quality she possessed was that she had been in marching band in high school, which may have been last year by the looks of things.
Of course I was attributing living somewhere else as setting me apart. I am sure no one in that room lived in any of the states I have resided, but it does not make for a unique quality. The unique part is how I got in a car with virtual strangers and 24 hours later made a home for myself on my friend's couch when we weren't touring with her band. The unique experience was of finding a job in a strange city and living alone, making my way without money or resources. What continues to be unique is how I keep on surviving--still without money, resources, or a career.
There were a couple of women I thought were appropriate for the job--young women who would blend in and warmly welcome those coming into the office for their appointments. Women who could restock the plastic cups and turn on the radio at the beginning of the day. They could chat about their faith while scheduling and filing. When asked to stay late, they will smile and willingly agree because going back to their empty apartments leaves little to be desired. They will try to imagine a day when they can spend their afternoon hours taking their imaginary children to the park before going home to a real house and fixing dinner for their imaginary husbands. I hope they know how to cook.
It was a light brown, wool suit that perfectly coordinated with the brown pumps I gave away when my third pregnancy flattened out my feet further, causing all of my shoes to be too small. I would wear this suit with one of the few silk blouses I ever owned, this one an emerald green. I felt invincible in this suit although it never really did for me what it was supposed to do.
I had walked into the offices where Mademoiselle Magazine is published in the Conde Nast building on Fifth Avenue in New York City wearing that suit many years ago. It was my one claim-to-fame interview, an interview that could have changed my life.
Clutching my portfolio and trying to keep a smile on my face, I chatted with an editor who was quite advanced in her pregnancy, perhaps so far along that she had not gotten the memo that retracted my invitation. But somehow I was invited to interview even though I would be told later there was never a position and it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe that is how rejection letters are written in NYC.
Before I knew there was no chance that I could be granted one of the copy editor positions, sitting across the desk from that editor made me feel like I was someone important. I sat wearing that beautiful suit, wondering if I got the job what I would wear the next day since she was already seeing my best, well, my only. She would tell me about ten minutes into the interview that she normally did not talk to prospective employees that long, before continuing on for another ten minutes. She seemed to want to instill hope in me. Maybe she saw herself as me, a small-town girl longing for an opportunity in the big city. I have no idea where she was from. Maybe she was not thinking clearly. Pregnancy does that.
Back to the matter of the suit. I settled for a dress, black with white polka-dots and even though it was a hot day in the South, I absolutely needed to wear a jacket to fulfill the professional requirement. Another problem. I still have the black jacket I have worn to many interviews in the more recent past. I call it my journalism jacket and wear it once in awhile, even though it no longer can be buttoned. It did not go with the dress. So I thought I would take a risk and wear something that expresses my sense of style and go with the vintage black jacket that I love. Pumps, pearls, red lipstick, and I was ready to take on the world.
Arriving 15 minutes early, I thought I would show that I was a serious contender. Walking into a nondescript office along a row of other nondescript offices in no way excited me. A rug and a wall painted a bright shade of green adorned the room. KLOVE permeated the airwaves. I heard one member of the staff say to her coworker that she takes everything back to the Bible. An antique-looking bottle of water was set out with small plastic cups. A Keurig coffee machine with styrofoam coffee cups, next to it. A version of Chicken Soup for the Soul is available on a corner table.
Having never been part of a group interview, I imagined four, maybe five, candidates sitting around a circle with the employer and maybe his staff joining in with questions. I thought maybe we would do an ice breaker exercise as though we were at a retreat or book study. I was the second interviewee to arrive, followed by eleven others. After we had taken all of the chairs in the waiting room, late-comers were ushered into a bigger, more open room where we would all eventually go.
What became immediately noticeable was that no one had dressed in business professional, but me. Several of the women had worn pants, but not really the kind that would go with a jacket. Some looked like they had put forth an effort; others not so much. I wondered if these girls even had pearls and pumps. They appeared to be young, single, and uneducated. With the exception of the woman who said she had an 18-year-old grandchild, I am pretty sure I reigned supreme as the elder woman, which was in no way an advantage.
After a brief introduction by the employer looking to hire one of us, we were each given two minutes to say who we were, where we were from, what was one unique thing about us, and how we inspired others. This is not what I was expecting. The first woman was called up front, as my mind swirled with possible answers. Suddenly, my name was called and I had to stand before the group. I had no idea what I was going to say. It was as though I had been transported back to Mrs. B.'s speech class on impromptu speech day when we had to draw a slip of paper out of a bag on our way to the podium to expound upon a topic. There is no slower, more painful death for me than that.
I wanted to connect with this potential employer and made a point of saying that I came from his home state though I had relocated here long ago. I was the only one in the room who could say that. I do not think it helped.
Trying to pick out a unique thing about me is the wrong question. Maybe I should try to choose one normal thing about me because there may only be one or two. To qualify myself by Myers-Briggs personality types, I am an INFJ and there is less than one percent of people like me. I need to associate meaning with everything I do. I am considered mystical and hard to get to know. I am always writing something in my head. I have to work hard to pretend to fit these job descriptions. I am a people person. HA! If you count the people I spend time with in books and movies, I am a very popular girl. Outgoing. That is completely a matter of perspective. I can be friendly. Really. Unique, on the other hand, is how I have been described from the beginning. I am usually the only redhead in the room. I have unique issues that plague me. I have many untold stories because I have yet to find someone who can relate to them. Uniquely qualified. Why didn't I say that?
Having no idea what the appropriate answer should be, I said the unique thing about me is that I used to live in Colorado, ride a bicycle, camp, and hike. I have no idea what bearing that had on anything or anyone. No one in the room seemed to register with the concept of living in the West or doing anything quite so athletic. It seemed to suggest that I was once in shape and healthy. Once.
On to how I inspire others. I am a writer. It is what I do best. It is how I inspire. It had nothing to do with this job. Having not formulated an answer to that one either, I heard myself telling the group that each morning on Facebook I post a quote with accompanying picture that is thought-provoking and hopefully uplifting to help those suffering with loss, illness, and the troubles of life so they can find a little something to get their day started right. I saw a glimmer of connection on the faces of these young women when I mentioned social media. The inspiration stopped there.
I would then listen to the rest of the interviewees, one by one, standing before the group telling us their unique qualities and how they inspire. I wondered how many of these girls had gone to college. I wondered what their grades were in high school. I wondered how I had ended up in this room among them. I felt punished, the butt of a cosmic joke. I tried not to let my mind wander as one of them said the most unique quality she possessed was that she had been in marching band in high school, which may have been last year by the looks of things.
Of course I was attributing living somewhere else as setting me apart. I am sure no one in that room lived in any of the states I have resided, but it does not make for a unique quality. The unique part is how I got in a car with virtual strangers and 24 hours later made a home for myself on my friend's couch when we weren't touring with her band. The unique experience was of finding a job in a strange city and living alone, making my way without money or resources. What continues to be unique is how I keep on surviving--still without money, resources, or a career.
There were a couple of women I thought were appropriate for the job--young women who would blend in and warmly welcome those coming into the office for their appointments. Women who could restock the plastic cups and turn on the radio at the beginning of the day. They could chat about their faith while scheduling and filing. When asked to stay late, they will smile and willingly agree because going back to their empty apartments leaves little to be desired. They will try to imagine a day when they can spend their afternoon hours taking their imaginary children to the park before going home to a real house and fixing dinner for their imaginary husbands. I hope they know how to cook.
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