I really should be a scientist

I keep coming to that conclusion. I know that in reality, scientists also have a hard time proving their worth, getting anyone to believe their ideas, and probably, also, have to answer questions like "what kind of team player are you?" Is this multiple choice? How many kinds are there? I don't know what it is but every question in an interview sounds like a veiled insult. "So you aren't working...what are you doing?" I'm looking for a fucking job! What do you think I'm doing? Well actually, I'm going on vacation to England (which they already know), I'm working on a documentary short for a non-profit (which is on my resume) and I'm blogging for WhatGives.com (which is what I actually said). The disinterested 25-year old with black hair hanging in his eyes made a note. I found out later that he's the quasi-blogger for the company. Sigh, why is this so nerve wracking?

If you read my previous post, you know I'm afflicted with massive regret syndrome which makes me agonize for hours, sometimes days after such an encounter, over every hideous answer, comment "that may be construed as negative" (which, I believe is literally everything) and the worse, over sharing. It is not always a good thing to be loquacious and at ease in front of an audience. I also should be clever enough to know that I could have prepared for this. Halfway through the interview, I was wishing I was a scientist and I could talk about data and research and things I'm building or testing or theorizing. I wish they'd give me a test or a "what would you do in this scenario?" Instead, they want to know about ME. What kind of person? What kind of worker? What kind of team member? What kind of interviewee? Did I tell you I was being group interviewed? Fun!

I wish I could say I felt good before, during or after my third interview for this job with the cool company, but I didn't. I looked really weird. My hair was flat, my face puffy, my skin red. What the heck? I never like what I'm wearing and always pretty sure it's all wrong. The last two days, I've been nervous and shredded my poor thumbnails so I was conscious of trying to hide those. And then the most senior woman in the room asked me when I graduated college, a date I intentionally left off my resume so as not to reveal my age. When I replied 1995 (and the others had also been asking about dates), I said "now you're all figuring out how old I am." Oh no, she said, we're not allowed to ask that.

I never knew how impossible it is to speak about myself without sounding like a total jackass. Really. Impossible! I feel like a used car salesman. My problem is, to combat the awkwardness, I'll show the customer the rust on the bottom, just so they know I'm on the level. Interviewing feels so messy to me, so out of control. It's like that scene in Parenthood where Steve Martin does the routine about slipping on Cowboy Dan's guts. That's me, except I'm slipping on my own guts. Oh well, it's over now and there's nothing I can do about it now except prepare for the next one and hope there is a next one.