why have one awkward situation when you can have three?
Clearly the only solution is panhandling. Had another job interview today and, as usual, wish for some kind of work-oriented Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind machine where, immediately after an interview, I could undergo a procedure and erase all memory of the horrid, horrid event. Wouldn't that be lovely? Then I could stop reliving that moment where I found myself staring down at my hands with no. idea. whatsoever. What I had been talking about.
(Still can't remember right now.)
Oh well. Oh well! Life goes on. Right? Right.
If nothing else, I totally wore a kickass pantsuit all day today. I felt all powerful and important everywhere I went, including Dunkin Donuts, where I got myself a congratulatory Coolata for surviving the interview (it was so delish). I looked like I had an Important Job! I walked around in my pinstriped pantsuit and recently-purchased too-large shoes (sometimes waiting till the night before an event to purchase shoes is not the best plan of action - on the upside, Kleenex stuffed in the toes seemed to work, since the shoes didn't fall off at any point) and felt great until the image of Successful Professional was, inevitably, shattered by me getting into my beat-up blue car.
The post-interview self-loathing is but a shadow of the self-loathing atomic explosion that took place on Monday, when I placed a phone call to Annie, one of my best friends since high school, to catch up after playing phone tag for weeks. I blabbed and blabbed about all sorts of boring things, nothing important, and then asked her what was going on. She started telling me and then segued from one story to another by saying, "And I have to get ready in a little bit because A is taking me out for my birthday," in a matter-of-fact way.
A smoother person than I would have said something like, "I was waiting to see how long you'd take to mention it! Like I'd forget - Happy Birthday! I wanted to let you know that FedEx messed up and the present's going to be at your house at the end of the week - stupid company!" And then laughed.
Instead I took a moment to recover from the mute horror stage and then responded with, "Oh my GOD, that's RIGHT, it IS, and I am SO SORRY! I know when your birthday is, I do! I just lost track of the days! Happy Birthday!! I am the WORST FRIEND EVER!"
Annie was very gracious and kind but I still spent most of the night wishing there was a cultural ritual one could go through to rid oneself of this kind of shame and agony. Public flogging, or a certain sum of money, perhaps.
Clearly the only solution is a Truly Awesome Gift. Am going to get on that tomorrow.
Also tomorrow, I have a Truly Awkward Social Engagement to look forward to. The other day my uncle Mike and I had the following conversation:
Mike: (in cheesy fake New Yawk accent) Hey, sweetheart.
Self: Hi Mike.
Mike: So listen, I was talking to a friend of mine at the V. Golf course the other day [insert description of said friend which I, naturally, cannot remember at all now. I have a vague sense that he works at the golf course? And is someone's son? Or has a son?], and we were talking about writing, and creative outlets, and he's been going down to New York City to find people to talk about this stuff and looking for a person to talk about it with up here, maybe set up a group. I, naturally, thought of you.
Self: Really! Well, okay.
Mike: So would you want to get together sometime? Talk about stuff?
Self: Uh, sure.
Mike: Great. Bye!
And I hung up, slightly weirded out, but figured that would be the end of it and I'd never hear of it again. Naturally I got another phone call on Monday.
Mike: How's Thursday at 5:30?
Self: What?
Mike: The Pro Shop? At the V. Golf Club? I'll introduce you guys and then you can get talking.
Self: Uh...okay.
Mike: Great!
Self: Should I, like, bring stuff to look -
Mike: No, just yourself!
And then he hung up and I stared at the cordless phone for a while.
The question: Have I been set up? Have I? Who IS this guy? Is he, like, my uncle Mike's age? Or is he young? I have visions of a 65 year old groundskeeper showing up tomorrow night and me having to make conversation for two hours. Oh God. I want to die. Why can't I just be normal? Why didn't I get more information? Why can't I remember what information I was given? I mean! I think it's a set up! But I can't ask! Because if it's not, how absolutely, positively mortifying would it be if I asked? I would look all desperate! And I am not desperate! Not really.
There's also the problem that I don't really write anything! I write ranty unedited essays about my boring life! Like this one! With too many exclamation points and lots of caps lock and, very often, repetitive sentence structure! Also, too many commas.
It is so late. I have spewed most of my crazy neuroses and now must go to bed. I didn't get to write about my awesome evening with Anna, whose birthday I did remember when it came in February, and who is leaving the country next week! Maybe I'll write about it tomorrow. It should be documented, if only for me.
(Still can't remember right now.)
Oh well. Oh well! Life goes on. Right? Right.
If nothing else, I totally wore a kickass pantsuit all day today. I felt all powerful and important everywhere I went, including Dunkin Donuts, where I got myself a congratulatory Coolata for surviving the interview (it was so delish). I looked like I had an Important Job! I walked around in my pinstriped pantsuit and recently-purchased too-large shoes (sometimes waiting till the night before an event to purchase shoes is not the best plan of action - on the upside, Kleenex stuffed in the toes seemed to work, since the shoes didn't fall off at any point) and felt great until the image of Successful Professional was, inevitably, shattered by me getting into my beat-up blue car.
The post-interview self-loathing is but a shadow of the self-loathing atomic explosion that took place on Monday, when I placed a phone call to Annie, one of my best friends since high school, to catch up after playing phone tag for weeks. I blabbed and blabbed about all sorts of boring things, nothing important, and then asked her what was going on. She started telling me and then segued from one story to another by saying, "And I have to get ready in a little bit because A is taking me out for my birthday," in a matter-of-fact way.
A smoother person than I would have said something like, "I was waiting to see how long you'd take to mention it! Like I'd forget - Happy Birthday! I wanted to let you know that FedEx messed up and the present's going to be at your house at the end of the week - stupid company!" And then laughed.
Instead I took a moment to recover from the mute horror stage and then responded with, "Oh my GOD, that's RIGHT, it IS, and I am SO SORRY! I know when your birthday is, I do! I just lost track of the days! Happy Birthday!! I am the WORST FRIEND EVER!"
Annie was very gracious and kind but I still spent most of the night wishing there was a cultural ritual one could go through to rid oneself of this kind of shame and agony. Public flogging, or a certain sum of money, perhaps.
Clearly the only solution is a Truly Awesome Gift. Am going to get on that tomorrow.
Also tomorrow, I have a Truly Awkward Social Engagement to look forward to. The other day my uncle Mike and I had the following conversation:
Mike: (in cheesy fake New Yawk accent) Hey, sweetheart.
Self: Hi Mike.
Mike: So listen, I was talking to a friend of mine at the V. Golf course the other day [insert description of said friend which I, naturally, cannot remember at all now. I have a vague sense that he works at the golf course? And is someone's son? Or has a son?], and we were talking about writing, and creative outlets, and he's been going down to New York City to find people to talk about this stuff and looking for a person to talk about it with up here, maybe set up a group. I, naturally, thought of you.
Self: Really! Well, okay.
Mike: So would you want to get together sometime? Talk about stuff?
Self: Uh, sure.
Mike: Great. Bye!
And I hung up, slightly weirded out, but figured that would be the end of it and I'd never hear of it again. Naturally I got another phone call on Monday.
Mike: How's Thursday at 5:30?
Self: What?
Mike: The Pro Shop? At the V. Golf Club? I'll introduce you guys and then you can get talking.
Self: Uh...okay.
Mike: Great!
Self: Should I, like, bring stuff to look -
Mike: No, just yourself!
And then he hung up and I stared at the cordless phone for a while.
The question: Have I been set up? Have I? Who IS this guy? Is he, like, my uncle Mike's age? Or is he young? I have visions of a 65 year old groundskeeper showing up tomorrow night and me having to make conversation for two hours. Oh God. I want to die. Why can't I just be normal? Why didn't I get more information? Why can't I remember what information I was given? I mean! I think it's a set up! But I can't ask! Because if it's not, how absolutely, positively mortifying would it be if I asked? I would look all desperate! And I am not desperate! Not really.
There's also the problem that I don't really write anything! I write ranty unedited essays about my boring life! Like this one! With too many exclamation points and lots of caps lock and, very often, repetitive sentence structure! Also, too many commas.
It is so late. I have spewed most of my crazy neuroses and now must go to bed. I didn't get to write about my awesome evening with Anna, whose birthday I did remember when it came in February, and who is leaving the country next week! Maybe I'll write about it tomorrow. It should be documented, if only for me.