‘Not yet.’ I replied. (But I am seriously tempted by some people to do something that would involve a knife, blood and blobs of brain matter.)
Yup. You guessed it. Just back from another job interview. (I was on the verge of copying and pasting one of my previous posts regarding the subject of job searching, but I would hate for my readers to feel cheated.)
Most impressive reception to date. Surroundings matched the company ethos, which, in turn, matches the whole laid back go-with-da-flo in our little town. Felt at ease – sort of at home.
‘Well, how was it?’ Most of my nearest and dearest have asked in the past few hours.
Now, I am nervous to answer. Like most of the interviews, it all went very well. Maybe too well? At least there were no suitability, personality or maths tests. But, I feel that if I am too positive, I will jinx the whole experience. I also don’t want to get their hopes up (poor dears – only want the best for me), or mine, for that matter.
It is mentally exhausting. To motivate your self before the ‘date’; to read up on the company and the particulars of the advertised position; to put on your happy face; to remember not to talk the hind leg off a donkey; oh – and what to wear – do you go the ‘office johnny’ route, the granny route, the ball-buster route or do you let your tits flop onto the desk in front of the interviewer and hope for the best?
And then there is the agonizing wait after the meet ‘n greet. And this is when self-doubt peaks. Did I sound stupid? Was I just too clever? Patronizing? Over-qualified? Under-qualified? Too desperate? Too blasè? Too creative? (No. Really.) This drawn out period can last anywhere from a few hours to weeks. Depends how eager they are to be the bearers of bad news and hear you cringe on the other side of the line.
And then the phone call.
I make a point of not sounding too distraught when I am told that although I was on the shortlist of 2, 3 or (insert any nyumber here), so-an-so got the job because they were more qualified, less qualified (No. Really.), anally retentive, had bigger boobs, shorter skirt, were prepared to work for free coffee and all the chocolate they could carry; or knew the bosses’ second cousin’s bat-ear nephew, Bruce. I thank them profusely for the bad news and try to keep my smiley face on ’till the call is disconnected.
But, really, all I want to say is, F@#k your job and that stupid place where you work.