Interviews are just the worst. They are only slightly less bad than unemployment and turning tricks on the street...though probably pimps have interviews for new hookers, which would be the worst of all. You'd have to get in your highest bang-me boots and your shortest vinyl skirt and try to look sexy while you were going to puke from nerves--or from other things. It'd be really hard to keep you mind on the job (see what I did there?).
What I'm saying is, interviews are a step up from unemployment and two steps up from auditioning to be a hooker.
In early 2009 (we were so young and innocent back then) I was one of the newly downsized. I hadn't reached the truly desperate stage of job-hunting (the kind where I'd consider employment in Rochester, NY) but there was a constant inner hum of tension and freak-outedness. To calm myself and because I didn't have anything else to do--like working--I flew from Florida to Arizona to see my parents. I was in the airport when I got the phone call.
A company I'd been speaking to in California wanted to interview me. Hooray! I might not be living in a cardboard box in a couple weeks! I didn't want to seem insanely desperate, so I tried to play it cool on the phone. I told them that I was in Arizona (hinting that it was for another interview rather than eating my mom's macaroni and cheese and sinking into the depths of self-pity) but would be available in a couple days. They wanted me out ASAP and we scheduled accordingly.
My plan was to fly back to Jacksonville, arriving at 10pm. I'd get home at about 11:30, go to bed and then wake up at 3:00am to drive all the way back to the airport to catch my flight to San Francisco. This flight would connect in Atlanta. I would have some time to go to my hotel to change and freshen up and then would be picked up and ferried to a grueling half-day interview.
I'm saying this so you know that there was a plan.
My flight into Jacksonville was late, landing at 11. I didn't get home until after midnight, at which point I realized that I still needed to unpack my Arizona things and repack interview things--like a suit and heels. Also enough hair-styling product to mask the fact that I hadn't had a haircut since the unemployment thing happened and it looked like a flock of chinchillas gnawed on my hair while I was sleeping.
Once I finished packing, it was after 1. I attempted to sleep but my body was having no part of it. It had no idea what time zone it was in, or what was going on, but it knew that big things were coming and it was producing enough adrenaline to lift a Volkswagen. You know, just in case Volkswagen-lifting would be important in the upcoming hours.
At about 3:30, I dragged my sorry butt out of bed and threw on traveling clothes. I yanked a brush through my hair (so it looked like well-behaved chinchillas had been gnawing on it) and grabbed my suitcase. I arrived at the airport and schlumped to my gate.
Delayed.
Of course it was. The flight was only delayed by about half an hour but I had a 45 minute connection in Atlanta. Anyone who's ever flown through Atlanta knows that if your connection is under an hour, you're never going to make it.
When we finally took off, I was crammed into a middle seat. I tried to psychically push the plane to break the laws of physics and probably also several laws of aviation in order to arrive in Atlanta early. This is when I learned that I do not have psychic wind-powers. It was disappointing.
We arrived in Atlanta and then spent about 10 minutes just sitting on the runway. My adrenaline was ratcheting up--hoping to be able to lift an airplane instead of a Volkswagen. I kept looking at my watch and making that noise where you inhale quickly through your teeth. My seatmates were not sympathetic. When the jet-way doors opened, I was one of the first out--intent on making the next flight. I sprinted majestically through the Atlanta airport.
It was majestic until my suitcase wheel broke and the suitcase flipped over; suddenly producing 100x the resistance and jerking me back like I'd just weighed anchor.
I picked myself up off the floor and proceeded to run 10 more steps before it happened again. Because I am a problem-solver, I picked up the bag and ran an additional 10 steps before I figured out that the suitcase was way too heavy for me to run with.
I developed a smooth gait, hoping to not jar the precarious bag any more than necessary. The bag stayed upright until I reached one of the moving walk-ways. Upon sprinting onto the walk-way, two things happened in quick succession. The suitcase flipped and my shoe fell off. Proving that this day was determined to be difficult, the shoe fell off on the part of the walk-way that was not moving.
I slowly glided away from my shoe as I attempted to right the bag and regain my balance. I looked around to see if there was a Southern Prince Charming nearby who might rescue my shoe. All the men present avoided eye-contact. Gathering what remained of my dignity into a deep part of my soul and hoping that it would survive the day, I began hopping back along the moving walk-way (hopping was necessary because this walkway was covered with various airport detritus). I had to hop very speedily because the walkway was moving against me.
My bag flipped over again but I gamely hopped on, dragging it behind me. I finally reached the shoe and attempted to hop in place while I clutched the bag with one hand and reached for the footwear with the other. After putting the shoe back on, I turned and righted the suitcase. I would like to point out that no one offered to help me at any stage of this process. Southern gentility at its best.
After that very embarrassing break from all the running, I began my sprint for my gate again. The suitcase flipped over several times, until I eventually accepted that it wanted to be upside down and dragged it behind me like I was a caveman and it was my own personal woolly mammoth carcass.
I arrived at my gate just in time to see the airplane leave.
After a haze of rescheduling (and shamefacedly calling my future employer) I scheduled a new flight for an hour later. This flight went without a hitch and I found myself in California at noon. At this point, I had been awake for about 30 hours straight.
Due to my late arrival, the interviewer said he would pick me up at the airport and take me straight to the office. My travel clothes were hardly equipped to make a good first impression, so I dragged my (upside down) suitcase into the airport bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I slipped my feet out of my betraying shoes and stood on top of them (to avoid touching the bathroom floor with my bare feet). Then I attempted to change into my interview suit. This was finally accomplished after bouncing off all of the stall walls and nearly falling into the toilet several times.
I hustled my, now nattily dressed, butt from the stall and studied my hair in the bathroom mirror. It looked about like you'd expect someone's hair to look when she's been up for 30 hours and and sprinted through an airport. Using a lot of sink water and the hand-dryer, I managed to reduce my hair volume by about 30%...leaving it still 70% too large.
My eyes were ruby-red from irritation after I shoved contact lenses into them, so I doused them with eye-drops to clear them. My eyes weren't red anymore but it did look like I was crying. Hoping to distract from the tears, I gunked on enough mascara to give myself an air of mystery.
We immediately went to eat. Want to know what's not fun after being awake for a day and a half and traveling across the country? Attempting to eat spaghetti noodles in front of a CEO and a CBO while carrying on a conversation somewhat above the guttural animal-sounds which are the only noises that your brain wants to make.
I managed to make it through the meal without spilling food on myself and was deposited in a conference room. I had about 8 different interviewers come and go while I tried not to think about how much I had to go to the bathroom. I was released from the office at about 6:30 and dropped off at my hotel. This did not mean that my interview was complete. Instead, it meant that I got to meet the VP of my department in a hotel restaurant for dinner.
At this point I was at about 40 hours without any sleep. The hotel restaurant was dark and the idea of eating was almost too complicated. I almost kissed the VP when he ordered a beer. There haven't been many times in my life where I really needed a drink but this was one of them. I was able to remain conversational until dinner was done and I could stagger up to my room to collapse into bed.
I woke up at 3:00 am to catch my egregiously early flight with the beginnings of a really nasty cold. More importantly, a week later, I got the job. I would not have to face unemployment or a life of turning tricks.
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you seem to have adventures that are almost like slapstick movies, at times, well done :)
I guess it's better than having adventures like horror movies. But yeah, it can sometimes be annoying :)
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