What I Thought Would Happen At My Job Interview vs. What Actually Happened

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Millennials experience a higher rate of anxiety that almost any other modern generation, or maybe the boomers are right and we’re all just softer than “Marvin’s Room” at 2 p.m. on a Sunday. Whatever it is, it seems that more and more we identify with agonizing over minutia of the near future or recent past (ever been about to drift off to sleep, only to be rudely awakened by the memory of tripping into the lap of the man you hoped to be your future boss? Ha, yeah, me neither). The former has become a little ritual I have with myself: I let my mind run wild with the worst possible outcome of a scenario, only to have it turn out completely fine 9 times out of 10. It usually goes something like this:

What I Think Will Happen

I wake up late. My trusty iPhone alarm, which has never failed me before, picked this day to go off completely silently. By some stroke of luck, I wake up naturally only 20 minutes later than I meant to, but it’s enough to put me on edge. I throw on my nicest clothes and make it to my car only somewhat frazzled, but frazzled enough that I accidentally listen to that U2 album that was non-consensually put on my phone some years back. I don’t notice until the sound of Bono having some kind of epileptic fit while trying to wail the words “Santa Barbara” fills my car stereo. I really need to get rid of that.

I spend entirely too long looking for the building’s parking garage which, according to the literature my interviewer gave me, is on the corner of 4th and Main. To my dismay, I discover that while the garage is there, the entrance is on some side street that’s apparently located in Narnia. Nevermind, I find street parking and I allocated for a little time to get caught in traffic, etc. Unfortunately, I hadn’t anticipated it taking quite so long, so I have to sacrifice being a few minutes early and looking like the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed candidate I am.

I take a deep breath and make my way to the entrance of the building. I see a young girl on the other side of the glass door; she is moving at an alarming rate and her head is buried in her phone. Her coffee mug, which is emblazoned with the words “Don’t Talk To Me Til I’ve Had My Coffee,” hangs haphazardly from two fingers. As I reach to pull open the door for her, so does she, and I discover I’m pulling on a push door, so I let go. The sudden lack of resistance causes coffee girl to open the door with a lot of force and proceed to spill lukewarm coffee all over my shirt—which is pale blue, of course. She mumbles “sorry,” barely looking up from her phone, clearly unaware of the anguish she’s just caused me. I try to say positive—maybe it’ll be a good icebreaker.

After wading my way through what feels like a landmine of obstacles, I make it into my interview, trying desperately to ignore my sticky cleavage. How much sugar was in that damn coffee? I check in with the receptionist, who informs me that my interviewer is just finishing up with the last candidate and should be out to greet me momentarily. I have a seat and take my first deep breath all day just as a crowd of people emerges from a side office. A man with slicked back hair and a chiseled jaw splashed with just the right amount of facial scruff shakes my (female) interviewer’s hand. His shirt is also pale blue, but without blotches of coffee staining his chest. The interviewer pushes her hair over her shoulder, giggles, and says, “We’ll be in touch. We have a few more candidates to get through, but I think we’ve made our decision” and winks. Fucking great, I think. She clearly hasn’t noticed me, and now I wish you could blend into the wall. The Bradley Cooper look-alike leaves and my interviewer spots me, taking in my stained shirt with a silent scoff. She is unphased by what I just witnessed.

“Sabrina?” she says.

“Serena,” I respond sheepishly. I want to explain my stained shirt, but the name mishap throws me off.

She sighs, “Okay, let’s get started,” and leads me into an office. She doesn’t make eye contact the entire interview, which lasts a whopping 11 minutes, including the questions I carefully prepared. At the end, she walks me out and says, “Thanks, Selena. We’ll let you know.”

I’m too beaten down to correct her.

What Actually Happens

I wake up earlier than I meant to because I’m anxious. The parking garage entrance is truly nowhere to be found, but I’m ahead of schedule, so making a few laps to find street parking isn’t detrimental. I opt for a sleek black shirt in case of any unforeseen accidents (they don’t happen). In my interview, I attempt to crack a joke and mistakenly refer to Game of Thrones character “Hot Pie” as “Meat Pie,” but my interviewer seems to know what I mean and chuckles. All things considered, it was one of the better interviews I’ve given; I represented myself well and managed to get them to laugh, not at my expense. I didn’t get the job this time, but never mind — it was probably the Meat Pie incident. .

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Serena from LA

Drier than a Napa Valley Sauv Blanc in the Mojave Desert. Best taken with a grain of salt.

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