Day 38 | Clean as a Flemish Interior | Down 15 Pounds; 51 to Go
Hey! Look out for the fat chick on the bike weaving through traffic!
That chick be me.
The 7-mile ride in the noontime 95-degree heat served as a kick-up-my-heels kind of release following four consecutive interviews with marketing managers at EMC.
I had given myself plenty of time to get there, but came to a grinding halt due to construction and then hit a detour and a patch of country road that sprawled on and on in the wrong direction.
This got me into a state well beyond, calm, cool and collected—the requisite demeanor for interviewing forgone—being hungover and mired in brain fog, fortunately, more than 30 days behind me.
Breathless, frantic—muttering the type of words you keep from techy white-collar employers.
That’s how I am when I zip into a parking space on the EMC campus. In a Tourette’s fit. Anyone watching the surveillance camera or gazing out the window amid a ho-hum meeting, can witness the car [ironically, a Honda Fit] bumping up against the curb, my upper body lunging into the steering wheel and the clip in my hair making a beeline for the windshield.
Out of the Fit.
Kick flip-flops aside for loafers, slip on a wool-lined jacket, flatten hair to ears, mush lipstick on my lower lip. Make way to reception looking as if I have a pee-emergency and about to dump the entire contents of my bladder.
Trapper John M.D. is there behind the desk, greets me.
It’s obvious I’m flustered, bustered and late for something important, like a meeting that yields potential income and stability. My vibe casts ringlets of angst in the cool, quiet interior.
“Aw, hell, traffic in Framingham was a mess!”
He smiles and assures me everything will be fine; has a pleasing way about him.
You know, like Trapper.
I tell him the name of the hiring manager, say, “is it too early for a martini?”
My last stint at EMC ended a year ago, a tedious project, but good experience and brand name for the resume. The tedium, though?
I came home thirsty.
And quenched that thirst.
Trapper winks and says, cupping his hand over his mouth so no one would hear, well, the weekend’s not that far off.
Voice inside my head:
You’re putting the wrong foot forward. Quick, take it back.
I’m grimacing. “Just kidding about the martini.”
He tells me Liz-beth is running five to ten minutes late. She’s in a meeting.
Maybe overlooking the parking lot.
I collect myself.
Use the restroom; look in the mirror. The new mascara is not dark brown but black and I appear to be a avid enthusiast for Marilyn Manson. Too bad I didn’t switch on the bathroom light this morning.
Despite my get-up—goth and disheveled—I will tell you that at the end of the interviews, one of out of the four peeps, said “I feel very positive about your qualifications” [he was a cute 30-something, sexy] and another said [a chatty Director-woman on the phone], “I am super-impressed with you.”
[It’s because you can’t see me, honey]
Will an offer manifest on Monday?
If I do get the job, it’ll be different this time.
I have the momentum of going-without behind me to keep from getting thirsty.