Alright, fam-a-Lamborghini (term I learned at the bar). Now that I’ve got nap in, paid my electricity bill, and taken my Sertraline, I feel that I am prepared to write to you of my interview experience.
Well, it went like this:
I walked in and immediately went to the nearest service counter to look for somebody who could help me find the HR lady I was supposed to be meeting. I’m feeling pretty conspicuous in what I feel is very obviously interview clothing, but this doesn’t seem to help me grab anybody’s attention. I realize they’re helping customers and move on to stalking around the store looking for somebody why maybe isn’t too busy to help. Eventually I run into a lady folding pants and I blurt out, “Hi, hello. I’m looking for M*****. Could you help me find her?” and I shit you not, she just about rolls her eyes at me as she picks up the mic from her lapel and asks if M***** is “radio-ed”. No response either of the times she did it.
Eventually she gives up and walks over to the counter I had just abandoned and asks one of the ladies working if they know where M is. They say no and the pants-folding-lady, who hasn’t made eye contact with me since she realized I was, in fact, speaking to her, commands in me a short, board breath to “go sit on the chairs by the mall entrance”. I’m sure I’m blushing bright red of embarrassment and guilt at this point, but I mutter a thank you before sulking over to the chairs, wondering what the hell is going on and if anybody is going to come find me. At this point, I’m really starting to wonder if I actually want to work here with bitch-zilla and the magically disappearing HR lady.
To distract myself, I start mannequin shopping from my seat when I see a pair of denim capris with super cute pink, embroidered flowers along the sides of the leg. I’m making mental note of them because I’m thinking that even if nobody shows up to interview me, I could still buy these pants and salvage the day somewhat. (Note: I actually did not end up buying them because, like, I’m fucking poor). Little did I know how important those capris were going to be.
At this point I’m literally half way through my, “WTF do I do now?” text I’m intending to post to my family’s group chat when, LOW AND BEHOLD, M***** finally shows up. She had apparently been in a different interview with a girl who brought her mom along. Like… is that normal? To bring your mom along? While M finishes up with them, I check the time on my phone. I’ve literally only been in the damned store for 15, maybe 20, minutes, but it feels like my muscles may have rusted in place. This becomes increasingly clear as I return M’s hello and reach to shake her hand: suddenly my arm weighs 70 pounds and I think I might knock this poor, cute, mousey looking lady unconscious with my dead arm.
And, really, that’s all the worse it got because the rest of the interview was a piece of cake and M and I both realized I’d be an awesome fit for this place! While she walked me up the stairs to the interviewing room, I commented on how I’d been admiring the flower capris downstairs. M literally stopped to look at me and was like, “Ohmigosh, I know! Every time I walk past them I think about how functional they are!” The deal was cinched right there–we was vibin’ way too hard. We spent the rest of the interview conducting formalities and laughing. I told her about my interview with the thrift store I work at now:
It was hot as tits up in that bitch, and I had been seated in a plastic chair. Once I got up to leave I noticed that I was peeling my shirt away from the back of the chair and made the mistake of looking back at it. Sure enough, I left a big ol’ sweat imprint of both my ass and back on the chair. I didn’t event know what to do: laugh, cry, flush in embarrassment? So I just kept walking, hoping my soon-to-be manager didn’t think I was some sort of slimy mutant. #SexyAF.
After the interview, M asks if I have time for her to show me around the floor. I oblige and half-way through the tour we get interrupted by a very upset employee with a children’s, transparent, plastic handbag displaying her pills, keys, and cigarettes. She starts telling M about how she thinks so-and-so should be moved to a different department because (in more polite terms) he’s a moron out to get her and she doesn’t feel like she should have to come to work and instantly be put into a mood where she thinks she’s going to have a meltdown because all of her hard work was ruined by a stupid employee later that night. I’m thinking this girl is really overacting and that the person she’s complaining about sounds like they need better training. While I’m eyeing up all of the cat hair on her yoga pants, wondering if I’ll be able to get away with the same thing, M does an excellent job calming the employee down.
“That’s one of the only times somebody has come up to me with a big complaint like that,” M says, trying to reassure me that I haven’t just agreed to working in hell. I get it, shit happens, so I’m not too worried about it. I let M know that I was so grateful for the opportunity to talk with her today before confirming that I haven’t been scared away quite yet. I then stumble my way through the mall in a haze, working what in the serious fuck just happened, when I bump into Jeremy who’s bought me 2 new eyeliners from Ulta as a congratulations present. At this point, I don’t even care about the clusterfuck that interview was, I now have a dip eyeliner with a new eyeliner brush. Yass, boy, yass.
But I was sorely mistaken that this would be the weirdest part of the career transition. You guys are going to have to hold your titties to get through part 3: handing in my 2 week notice.