On the Hot Seat...

I have a job interview, and I am panicking. I had a dream last night that I was standing perched on a toilet in a public restroom being shot at. I could feel the bullets buzzing past my ankles. The truly disturbing part of this was not the shooting, rather that I was somehow misguided enough in my own dream to be inside an undoubtedly revolting public washroom.

I have done my nails, fixed my clothes, and shined my shoes. I have tweezed every rogue hair to be found on my person, including my Chuck Norris sideburns which all of my loved ones have neglected to mention for the past two and a half decades. It makes me wonder if I have a third eyeball somewhere that they have all avoided staring at and continue to discuss in disturbed and quiet tones when I'm not listening.

I have secured transportation, planned a pre-interview meal, and have post-interview relaxation plans.

I have memorized every applicable and completely irrelevant but perhaps interesting fact that I can latch on to. Which, can I just say, is a lot of information in this google-age we inhabit.

Truth be told, none of this is why I am nervous.

I have no script.

Over the years, I have observed and catalogued enough human behaviour to get me through almost any situation with ease. Sitting in a workshop? No problem! I have a casual yet interested posture (thieved from a girl I can't remember in high school), my legs crossed at the knee, hands in my lap, head slightly tilted to left, making occasional eye contact with the speaker. Mingling? I'm golden! In a move stolen from a to-remain-nameless serial killer, I latch on to some aspect of a person and inquire with calculated but seemingly genuine curiosity (e.g. "when did you realize your passion taxidermy?" or "tell me more about your pussing and infected boil".)

I've managed to carefully craft a social persona that reads as witty, intelligent, and non-threatening. I am the girl that hangs out by the punch bowl, well liked but forgettable, save for that one-liner about male anatomy you will use at all your future gatherings.

Without such techniques firmly in place, I end up saying things like "What's in this taco salad? Feline? Should I put it in a tortilla or just go lick a cat?" Which, clearly, is followed by a completely tasteless sexual innuendo. It's often unstoppable and generally idiotic, and it can strike at anytime. One minute I'm ordering a sandwich, the next I'm inexplicably telling the waitress I inappropriately poked a wallaby one time.

And this, my friends, is the true reason why I am facing acute job interview panic syndrome. I have no "job interview" moves. No witty malapropisms, no classy compliments, no comical yet intelligently insightful stories hinting at my job readiness.

I may very well ask the interviewer a completely inappropriate question relating to their undergarments or their family pet or both. I will probably inadvertently insult their mother, and the subject of body fluids is almost a given. Undoubtedly, I will reference The Biggest Loser, Anderson Cooper, or Spiderman.

Simply put, I cannot be left to my own devices in uncharted waters and expect an acceptable outcome without some kind of debilitation on the part of my audience. So, cross your fingers kids, and let's hope this interviewer is good and drunk.