Not in the Cards
Way back in June, my friend Marty did a Tarot reading for me. I never went in for Tarot even when I was a practicing Wiccan, but he had new cards and wanted to use them, so I indulged him.
Marty predicted that there was a big change coming in my life, specifically to do with work. He said the perfect job was waiting for me, and that it was the opportunity I had been waiting for. I'd been going through some work angst, and it was just after we found out that John didn't get the job he wanted in Montreal. I was feeling pretty bleak, not only about my job, but the future in general. I had seen a possible move back to Montreal as a chance to get out of a city that has no real use for a not-quite-bilingual anglophone, and finally get meaningful work and out of this endless cycle of dead-end jobs that I've had since before I was married. So when Marty made his prediction, I filed it away as my best friend trying to cheer me up. And I promptly forgot about it.
Then early in the morning on September 12th, I was tooling around on the internet, and I found the a job posting for a project coordinator at an English community group here in Quebec City. It was in every way the perfect job. It involved doing pretty much what I do now-- events planning and PR-- only with more involvement with the Anglo community, plus higher pay (and my own desk!) and a chance to get out of retail hell. I stayed up until almost three in the morning writing and re-writing a cover letter and polishing my resumé. On Monday of last week they called to schedule an interview, and I met with them on Thursday. I thought I did very well. Plus, it was my 33rd birthday. How could I possibly fail? Things were looking good. I found myself thinking about Marty and his Tarot cards.
They called me Friday while I was at work, but I had a book signing and didn't get the message until late Friday night. I spent the weekend wondering if two weeks from now I would be working somewhere new, or if they would tell me thanks but no thanks.
As soon as their offices were open this morning, I called, and I left a message for the person who interviewed me. I called back at lunch, and again just after. I finally spoke with the office manager. She broke the news to me: I didn't get the job.
So... thanks, but no thanks.
I've been in this position before. I have gone on countless job interviews in my day, and I've been rejected many, many more times than I've been accepted. There have been tons of jobs that I wanted and didn't get. But this wasn't just any job. This job was tailor-made for me. It's almost as if the job listing had said "XXX is looking for you, Heather!" I wanted this job. I needed this job. And I would have been so good at it.
The rational side of me knows that it was very close, and the person they picked got the job not because I suck, but because they're qualified. But part of me keeps wondering what I did to screw it up. Did I babble too much during the interview? Did I say something wrong? Did I fail to say something right? Is it because I took too long on the written portion? Is it my French? That nagging voice in my head keeps dwelling on this, because this job was so perfect for me, and I for it, that the only way I couldn't have gotten it is if I had done something monumentally stupid.
A few hours ago, the interviewer called and told me that it had come down to three final candidates, and that they had a hard time choosing between me and two other people. Finally, they had gone with someone else. It had nothing to do with me, but that the other person was very qualified for the job. And Rational Heather, she gets that. But Emotional Heather can't help but doubt. She can't help but ask, "What if?" Because it's not as though Quebec City is teeming with work for people like me, you know?
I want this to be all right. I want to feel as though I did my best, and that this was just a stumble on the road to something greater. But I can't help feel that Marty was right, that fate dealt me a hand and that the odds were stacked in my favour, that I had this amazing chance...
...and I blew it.
Marty predicted that there was a big change coming in my life, specifically to do with work. He said the perfect job was waiting for me, and that it was the opportunity I had been waiting for. I'd been going through some work angst, and it was just after we found out that John didn't get the job he wanted in Montreal. I was feeling pretty bleak, not only about my job, but the future in general. I had seen a possible move back to Montreal as a chance to get out of a city that has no real use for a not-quite-bilingual anglophone, and finally get meaningful work and out of this endless cycle of dead-end jobs that I've had since before I was married. So when Marty made his prediction, I filed it away as my best friend trying to cheer me up. And I promptly forgot about it.
Then early in the morning on September 12th, I was tooling around on the internet, and I found the a job posting for a project coordinator at an English community group here in Quebec City. It was in every way the perfect job. It involved doing pretty much what I do now-- events planning and PR-- only with more involvement with the Anglo community, plus higher pay (and my own desk!) and a chance to get out of retail hell. I stayed up until almost three in the morning writing and re-writing a cover letter and polishing my resumé. On Monday of last week they called to schedule an interview, and I met with them on Thursday. I thought I did very well. Plus, it was my 33rd birthday. How could I possibly fail? Things were looking good. I found myself thinking about Marty and his Tarot cards.
They called me Friday while I was at work, but I had a book signing and didn't get the message until late Friday night. I spent the weekend wondering if two weeks from now I would be working somewhere new, or if they would tell me thanks but no thanks.
As soon as their offices were open this morning, I called, and I left a message for the person who interviewed me. I called back at lunch, and again just after. I finally spoke with the office manager. She broke the news to me: I didn't get the job.
So... thanks, but no thanks.
I've been in this position before. I have gone on countless job interviews in my day, and I've been rejected many, many more times than I've been accepted. There have been tons of jobs that I wanted and didn't get. But this wasn't just any job. This job was tailor-made for me. It's almost as if the job listing had said "XXX is looking for you, Heather!" I wanted this job. I needed this job. And I would have been so good at it.
The rational side of me knows that it was very close, and the person they picked got the job not because I suck, but because they're qualified. But part of me keeps wondering what I did to screw it up. Did I babble too much during the interview? Did I say something wrong? Did I fail to say something right? Is it because I took too long on the written portion? Is it my French? That nagging voice in my head keeps dwelling on this, because this job was so perfect for me, and I for it, that the only way I couldn't have gotten it is if I had done something monumentally stupid.
A few hours ago, the interviewer called and told me that it had come down to three final candidates, and that they had a hard time choosing between me and two other people. Finally, they had gone with someone else. It had nothing to do with me, but that the other person was very qualified for the job. And Rational Heather, she gets that. But Emotional Heather can't help but doubt. She can't help but ask, "What if?" Because it's not as though Quebec City is teeming with work for people like me, you know?
I want this to be all right. I want to feel as though I did my best, and that this was just a stumble on the road to something greater. But I can't help feel that Marty was right, that fate dealt me a hand and that the odds were stacked in my favour, that I had this amazing chance...
...and I blew it.