The Interview

4:00am. 4:10am. The alarm goes off (a second time–let’s not pretend that no one likes to round up and brag about how early they get up in the morning).

That’s right, yesterday was my first official interview in New York City. That magical place, to quote Alicia Keys, and several other people I’m sure, “where dreams are made of.”
At 4:10 my dreams were interrupted, which is just as well seeing as in my dream I was right about to be told “we’ve decided to cancel your interview, please leave now” by the higher-ups of my intended future place of employment. Out of bed, quick stretch and a groan, into the shower.Post-shower, I decide to throw on a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt, leaving my suit and shirt (neat and pressed in that fancy garment bag) for later. Remember the apartment I just got? It has turned into the perfect rest-stop for travel to all places City and Beyond.

Clock ticks: 4:40. Blow dry my hair. Now I’m completely dry, dressed, deodorized, and determined to get on the road by 5:00.


No, like actual crap.

As it turns out Izzie, our delightful little cavachon was so excited for my interview she pooped her little pants. Wait, she doesn’t wear pants.

I try to convince myself that this is not a bad sign as I disinfect my flip flop and the floor. This incident sets me back about 7 minutes, but soon I’m in the car and on my way to the gas station.

No one, I repeat no one should do anything this early in the morning. You will forget which side your gas tank is on. You will not notice this until after you shut the car off and hit your car door on the gas pump itself. Another sign. I ignore this and try again.

Once in Queens, I wake up my cousin to unlock the dead bolt. She comforts me, the way a cousin should, because at this point I’m all nerves. I’ve even forgotten how to primp. Do I do my hair first, or my makeup? I put the suit on, I take it off — saving the best for last.

By 7:45, I’m slipping on my panty hose. I feel sexy and confident, except for these traditional leg-wrappings that make me 10 degrees hotter, and scream: “I’M ON MY FIRST INTERVIEW!”

Hug from my roomie. Bag in hand. Panty hose suffocating my poor legs. I head to the subway. Soon after, I’m headed back to the apartment to meet my cousin for her unlimited Metro Card — I was unable to buy one. I never have cash on hand, so sue me.

This set-back causes instant stress: A breath-taking tug, and you feel your stomach drop. A nice stream of sweat down your forehead. Did I mention it was also 90 degrees outside? Now I’m sweating through my shirt and trying to act like a regular on this subway train where I reek ofoutsider. 

I successfully reach my destination by 8:30. My interview is in an hour. I find a nearby Starbucks, as per my cousin’s suggestion, and order an iced beverage, wishing it was vodka. By the time I get my drink, I feel as if I’ve run a marathon. Rolling my sleeves up, promising to pull myself together in a half hour, I find a seat directly below a delicious air conditioner, and sit.

It is physically plausible to calm yourself down with an iced latte. Another suggestion from my cousin, which I found absolutely perfect: go to the bathroom and run cool water over your wrists. Also — remove any and all panty hose. Take ’em off girls. They’re out-dated, and completely ridiculous in 90+ degree weather.

Panty hose removed, wrists a little damp, I unroll my sleeves, throw out my half fullplastic coffee cup and make my way to the office thinking, I can certainly do this.T

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