Sometimes a girl has to check out her options. Look around,
see what’s out there, and see if maybe it is not just her imagination, the way
that grass is so lovely and so green. And that is why when they called me up
and said "Hey! You should come interview with us!" I answered "Okay! That
sounds so nice! We can be best friends and go on picnics and drink tea!" And then
they said "Okay!" And we both said "Hooray!" And it was all very lovely.
Then I hung up the phone and, smiling, went about my day
feeling very special and wanted and maybe a tiny bit important and then I had a
heart attack, because I remembered that I have nothing at all to wear, and an
interview is not an occasion when a rattan belt, a pair of
knee-high boots and Guy’s robe are an appropriate cobble-together. No, I was fucked.
But wait! There was a light–and maybe it wasn’t a train–down there at the end
of the tunnel, though probably it was because that is how I roll. This is San
Francisco, and in San Francisco, unless you are interviewing for a position at
a bank or an investment firm or an S&M dungeon or a public relations firm (and that is a long and
terrible story you should ask me about someday, when you buy me a drink and
pretend you just want to know everything about me), you
are pretty free to make up your own interpretation of Interview Wear. Short of
a cowboy hat and flippers, I could probably, with a little imagination and some
heavy-duty praying, I could pull off almost anything in my (sad) (meager)
Excitingly, the interview was at an ad agency, right? And ad
agencies, they are creative! They might even love the snorkel mask, and exclaim
over my darling Christmas sweater which I would accessorize with a sequined
cape and a bucket of chicken.
I tore apart my closet, and went through all my drawers, and
assembled some things that could possibly maybe work a little bit, though I was
disappointed to find that I had apparently already given my prom
dress and my diving helmet to Goodwill. There was a pencil skirt that could maybe work. Well,
it used to be a pencil skirt. Now, I know, it sort of hangs around my hips
instead of my waist, but it is serviceable, and that is a reasonable thing to
ask of my clothes, who love me and only want the best from me. Brown is not a
color I would have chosen for an interview in a creative field, but beggars,
they can’t be choosers! And here I was, begging to be chosen.
So, brown. More brown is clearly what this outfit needed. Luckily, my only
button-down shirt left is a brown one with tiny green and white pinstripes, and
look at me so fancy, with all my matchings, like that. My body would scream,
"Hello, I am like, so totally professional," and the tiara would say, "Sassy!" And
in that way, I would win.
I placed the outfit carefully over the door of my armoire,
and chose a pair of pointy kitten heels, and then I went and celebrated my
awesomeness by cleaning the bathroom and then reading Jane in the tub. Do you
know what I failed to do? Yes. You probably got it in one guess. Pick exactly what is
the stupidest thing in the world to have done, and you will have exactly the
right answer. I did not try on the outfit. Because–why? I don’t know why! You’d
think I would have figured out, by now, the danger of clothing in my closet,
which lurks there, waiting to hang off my body and make me feel sad. But
somehow, I neglected to remember that lesson, and instead went toddling off,
I know I was afraid to tempt fate, and find out that the
whole enterprise had failed and I would be showing up to my interview in socks
and a sheet, but really. With a lever and a steady place to stand, I could have
moved the world! Or at least pinned in some darts or something. Or figured out
how to belt the fucker with a length of twine and a brooch. Or something!
Something besides standing in front of the mirror in the
morning, 15 minutes before I had to leave, wailing about how my life
was completely and totally over for all time. I scrambled through the closet and dug out a pink button-down shirt that was probably better than all the brown, anyway, and I just had to iron
it, and I couldn’t find the iron, and then when I finally did I couldn’t find
the ironing board (how do you lose an ironing board?) and then I found spots on
the shirt and then I shot myself in the head and I died.
Then, filled with a great sense of inevitableness and sorrow, I put on a blue
pullover, and put on a green corduroy blazer, and I wore my little brown skirt,
and I said to myself, I said, "Self, advertising agencies are very creative! They
will applaud your sense of adventurous color! And by God, you better kick ass
at the editing test. You clown."
And I did. They’ve called me back for another interview, and
I am going to sell plasma to buy a business suit. A pink one.