Happy 20th!
I haven’t written an article in a while. I went on my 20th job interview last week, which can sort of throw you into a state of amusement, followed by depression, followed by pensive-life-re-evaluation, desperate self-validation, then maybe back to a state of depression (after the interview, I calmly called my sister to ask whether I should celebrate the big 2-0 with a cake, or vodka. She suggested cake-flavored vodka, which at the time seemed like a brilliant compromise). I waited it out for a bit, hoping that some sort of meaningful life lesson with a hilarious anecdote would follow, and the whole “when life gives you lemons” thing would actually turn into a great story I could write about. It didn’t. Instead, I ended up with three consecutive job rejections on a Friday afternoon, a bruised shoulder blade and am now being stalked by a stylist who wants to use my hair as a template for a “fashion mullet.” Here’s how we got there…
Let me start by saying I hate Fridays, and this part of the story isn’t funny (in fact, it’s kind of a downer. Sorry). After 20 job interviews (21 actually, if we’re counting this week), you begin to see the pattern in the hiring process. The majority of the time, the rejection e-mail shows up on a Friday at 5:05 pm. Close of business, deal with all of your dirty work before you head home to enjoy your weekend. Fridays before federal holidays are the worst. One organization I interviewed with three weeks ago hadn’t responded to any of my follow up e-mails until the Friday before Memorial Day, sending me an impersonal note and a “best of luck with your search.” Five minutes later, another one rolled in, and by 6 pm I decided three job rejections in an hour was enough and shut off my computer.
Saturday, I finally peeled myself off the floor and decided sunlight and endorphins might be a good way to lift my spirits. So I assembled my stuff for the gym to try and release some of my aggression before work. Being that I had curled up in a hole for 24 hours with the uninsured girl’s version of Xanax (Jameson’s and carbs) instead of doing laundry, all I had left were tiny compression shorts to wear to the gym. I’m usually a baggy shorts/holey t-shirt kind of girl at the gym, so this was a change for me. I walked into the gym, hoping no one would say “Hey! Welcome back!” as this was not the time to point out my lack of commitment, and I probably would have responded with an emotionally charged “NO YOU WELCOME BACK I HATE EVERYONE” or something equally as eloquent. Instead, the guy at the front desk asked if I was the new personal trainer. The new…ahem? I was a little confused and flattered, and told him, no I was just a normal gym member, just here to do… normal gym things…like…that machine…over there… (clearly, I think well on my feet, obviously making me a star player in the service industry). He then told me I look like a personal trainer and if I ever were to consider it, to let him know. I walked away feeling 10 times more confident, wishing there were some way I could high-five my tiny compression shorts for making the world realize that I have the legs of a GREEK GOD (also not true. At no point in the conversation was there ever any mention of “Greek Gods.” Remember that self-validation phase? I had delved from questioning the meaning of life to finding the meaning of life in lycra shorts in a matter of minutes). I proceeded to the treadmill where I began to run, slowly realizing these were not meant to be running shorts. Despite having to readjust every 30-seconds, I ran confidently, as a would-be-personal-trainer-who-can’t-run-a-5k would. I had developed this awkward gait to keep the shorts in place, and leaned over to adjust my iPod on my arm band, which between the two I suppose made me sort of veer to the right. Before I knew it, I had one foot on the treadmill, one foot on the stationary side and was instantly catapulted off the treadmill. I tried to maintain composure and readjust the tiny shorts before anyone could process that I had completely fallen off the machine and my shoulder blade now had a hand-sized rug burn, but of course, I had become the center of attention and gym attendants rushed over to assist me. Needless to say, we all silently agreed that becoming a personal trainer was probably not my calling, and self-validation phase was now over.
Then I went to the beauty salon next door, primarily because I now had some time to kill before work as I left the gym after 15 minutes, and also because I thought scheduling some sort of beauty treatment might make me feel better. I scheduled a hair trim and eyebrow wax (wacky, I know) for the following Monday. I went into the appointment, and felt much better after the eyebrow wax. There’s something therapeutic about eyebrow waxes (not in the masochistic, pulling the hair above your eye out kind of way-in the now you can see my eyes and not my unibrow kind of way). I was walking from the spa to the hair cutting section of the salon when a stylist approached me. “You’re really cute! Have you ever thought about being a hair model?” Obviously, from my previous track record with flattery, all I heard from her comment from this was you’re cute and model. “What? Me? (Hair swish) A model? (Swish) Never! Why?” I am a liar. Anyone who says they’ve never thought about being a model/child actor/popstar is lying. Logistically, do we all want to do it? No. But I clearly wasn’t thinking about the logistics of becoming a hair model. I am in the middle of a phase where I have the self-esteem of an abused kitten and this woman just told me I could be on brochures and in magazines and travel for free being a model. Uh, duh. Make me pretty! So I agreed to be her hair model at the preliminary national…hair…something or other competition. As I’m giving this woman my information, she mentions she has some ideas and wonders if I would like to see her thoughts? I of course, said yes, wondering what type of chic new hairstyles I might end up with on the cover of millions of magazines. She pulled out her iPad and said “So I’m envisioning a Fashion Mullet…” On the screen was a picture of a bright blue mullet, and I will tell you, there is nothing “fashionable” about business-in-the-front-party-in-the-back. I slowly started coming to my senses and realized it clicked with me that this woman wanted to chop my hair into a bright blue “fashion mullet” at a preliminary competition in Huntsville, Alabama. “Yeah, umm, I’m not sure I’m a mullet-type of girl…” to which she replied “Well, think about it! I’ll call you about it tomorrow and just keep checking in with you!”
And she did. I can’t get anyone to call me back about a job before Friday at 5:05, but by God, I have a woman itching to provide me with a free fashion mullet and a trip to Huntsville, Alabama. Who calls me about it. Daily. Sometimes twice a day. C’est la vie.
Image from http://www.clipartof.com/portfolio/oligo/illustration/3d-20th-birthday-or-anniversary-party-cake-1062343.html
