So, in my last post I mentioned an interesting interview for a job. I’m sure you all were destitute and depraved, enduring three sleepless nights that put you on the brink of insanity being consumed by my enigmatic journeys, wondering WHAT IN THE WORLD HAPPENED AT THAT INTERVIEW?! Breathe easy, sweet readers, for it really wasn’t that big of a deal. However, I do believe that it makes for an entertaining story which I would very much like to share, especially if my strange misadventures entertain and/or amuse you.
Last week, I walked into a chic boutique in midtown and began inquiring as to whether or not they were hiring. I guess they were desperate, because the manager miraculously said that she approved of me and gave me the address for the boutique’s main office, where I had to go in for a second interview the next day. “But,” she said, eyeing my frazzled hair and bare neck, “Make sure to wear lots of makeup and jewelry...They really like that at headquarters.”
I decided to walk to the interview so as to get to know downtown Manhattan a little better by foot. However, it was much hotter than I’d expected, and I began sweating instantly. I was thrilled when I got to the address that I’d been given for the interview, only to find that it was instead a five-story Hollister. I spent twenty minutes trying to figure out why I couldn’t find the office, going through all of the levels of the building, talking to salespeople, doormen in nearby buildings, and even going around the building where I got kicked out of the back entrance of Hollister, all to no avail. No one seemed to know where this elusive office was, and it wasn’t until I googled it on my phone that I realized I’d gotten the wrong address. I was already five minutes late. This was not boding well. Fortunately, it was only a block off, so I sprinted over, signed in, rushed upstairs, and then realized I still had to change into my “interview pants” that I didn’t want to wear on the way over because I didn’t want to sweat in them.
You know what’s worse that changing into pants when you’re sweating and swollen from the heat? Doing it in what you believe to be an abandoned hallway because you can’t find the bathroom. As I began unbuttoning my shorts, a girl walked by. We made very awkward eye contact as I froze with a guilty smile on my face. Needless to say, she quickened her pace. After she left, I threw on my ridiculously tight pants and waddled penguin-style to my interview, praying that there weren’t the early formations of sweat marks on my way-too-skinny-skinny-jeans.
The “they” that I was trying to impress at my interview turned out to be a thirty-something Mediterranean model man with a dazzlingly white smile and a casually unbuttoned linen shirt that displayed a good portion of his baby smooth chest. It wasn’t so much an interview as a handing over of W4 and I9 forms for me to fill out right on the spot (like I said, they were VERY desperate for sales girls), and a flippant comment from him that when read between the lines boiled down to, “Young women will want to buy clothes from you because you’re attractive and you’ll sell our brand nicely.”
I know he meant it as a compliment, but my feminist brain kicked in and I began to question whether or not I really wanted this job. I began to sweat again, and this time it was because of the pressure of being signed into something that my gut was saying wasn’t for me. I went back to Mr. Mediterranean Man, and in the ten minutes I’d spent reading the employee handbook, he’d totally unbuttoned his shirt. I was slightly concerned that if I stayed around any longer he’d just continue undressing, and I was really not up for any more surprises, so I made up an excuse about finding my bank routing numbers at home and quickly made my exeunt.
Thus concluded said interview, and another one of my minor but wacky misadventures. Oh well. Guess I’ll just add it to the list of ‘em.
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