So, I had an interview for a job yesterday. I dressed the part of an adult woman -- I even wore heels. My toes were numb from the excruciating pain about an hour into wearing them, and I was 90% sure my feet were just going to fall off, but I was tall(er)! You see, as a fun-sized individual, I have to have some extra height so the interviewers are not prone to ask if I am enjoying 4th grade, or if I know Frodo. So, in order to look more imposing than an oompa-loompa, I donned the torture devices.
For me, the preparation for an interview is almost as horribly nerve-wracking as the interview itself. I read almost every article about how to make an interview my bitch, and wrote down questions to ask that will convey both my incredible interest for the job while also illustrating my scintillating intellect for gestating those said questions. I made notes about the company to portray my further interest -- of no longer being unemployed.
To the undiscerning eye, it would seem that I had everything under control. Unfortunately, there is also the horrendously embarrassing case of nerves that I get when I have to either give a speech, or have an interview. I am a complete wreck during the days leading up to it. During those days of preparation, I am writing maniac notes on pieces of parchment throughout the house, my hair is on par with a mentally institutionalized person because I have been running my fingers through it constantly and my lips have been gnawed on for the better part of week. In short, I resemble a troll under a bridge rather than the 22-year old female that I am.
On the day of the interview, I feel like one of those nervous poodles that pees itself. I try and relax, but it is an impossible task when your body is wigging out on you. There is also the mountainous job of taming the mess that I allowed myself to become. Makeup is applied, hair is blown-out to good-enough perfection and eyebrows are tweezed. Imagine The Princess Diaries makeover, and multiply it by eight hundred. Crazed notes are neatly transferred to my notepad, and I shakily put on the most professional outfit I own -- a suit. The torturous heels are finally shoved on without much ceremony before I grab my culminated research materials, and rush out of the door.
I arrive about ten minutes early to show my punctuality and promptness (I actually I showed up twenty minutes early because I was so nervous, and sat in the car for the first ten.) There is a slight panic attack before I stumble out of the car and wobble slightly in my heels. I regain my balance, before heading towards the building.
As I walk up to the business’ front door, I feel less like an interviewee and more like a convicted felon marching to the guillotine. I enter, and awkwardly converse with the secretary as I wait for the interviewers to be available.
During the interview, the nerves manifest themselves in sweaty palms, my heart trying to escape out my chest and a slight tremor in my voice that grows stronger with awareness. It is absolutely horrible, and completely embarrassing. I press through the interview, trying to tame the quiver in my voice and answer the questions as best as I can.
Two statuesque interviewers stare at me with little response. Feeling unnerved by their lack of emotion, a joke escapes.
I laugh.
Both sets of lips slightly curl up at the edges. This is the most emotion I have seen from the two.
The interrogation continues. Questions are now asked in rapid fire.
Reacting as best as I can, I continue to try and answer them as well as I can muster under the circumstances. Time moves both excruciatingly slow and fast.
Then, it’s finally over.
The torture of my feet and my nerves is at an end. I shake the interviewers’ hands, and share parting words before leaving. My hands are still clammy, and my body is shaking slightly almost from shock.
I drive home in bare feet.
Now, I have to wait 3-6 days to see if I am selected for the second round of interviews. The nerves return. My hands begin raking through my hair again.
The process is not the least bit over.
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