Learning to love again

In some ways, a good job is like a marriage. However, if the job starts going south, you still get paid for it, and it’s much easier to leave. Lawyers are rarely needed, although if you are asked to step aside, a burly security guard might be required. (Wouldn’t that be an interesting and certainly more inexpensive option to end some marriages: “I’m sorry, Chuckie. The company has decided to eliminate your position. Now if you go quietly with this nice man and pack up your tube socks and collection of ugly tchotchkes he won’t have to shoot you.”)

My job was like a marriage. Except when my services were no longer needed, the only burly man I required was the one (actually it took three) to carry out the physical baggage of my eight years of service.

The mental baggage took longer to unpack. How foolish of me - I’d thought that after so many months, after washing the dirty laundry, filing away the travel brochures and tucking the suitcases into the storage bin, that I’d be ready to start “dating” again.

But I still had my illusions. I uploaded my resume to job sites, I cruised the web looking for potential. Still hoped that I was ready for that perfect new relationship which was just out there waiting for someone like me.

Hah, the universe said.

Then a few days ago I picked up an interesting new local paper, scanned the classifieds, and saw that the publishers were looking for a part-time graphic designer. It sounded right, it felt right. Maybe I was healthy enough for a part-time gig. If not marriage, at least one of those transitional relationships. So I called, had one of those conversations with the editor where you felt like you’ve known each other all your lives – we even had the same name (yes, I know, how odd would it be to find another Opus just fifteen minutes from my humble abode) – and in one head-spinning exchange, she asked if I could come in the next day with some samples and I said yes.

I said yes.

I hung up the phone. I said yes?? Oh, crap, I thought. What the hell have I done? I hadn’t had a job interview in eight years. I didn’t even know if I had any samples let alone where I might have put them in my wreck of an office.

Half an hour later I was working out at my PT’s clinic. “I’ve got a job interview tomorrow,” I told Tom, and he smiled. Some days I live for that smile, that “hey, girl!” when I come through the door. He’s got to be the most consistently upbeat person I’ve ever met and he was acting like this was the best news he’d heard all week.

During the time I was there he kept peppering me with sample interview questions.

“So tell me, Ms. Opus,” he said in a pompous interviewer-type voice, “What would you say is your greatest weaknesses?”

“Uhhh….I work too hard,” I said, upping my speed on the treadmill. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“Anything else?”

“Hmm.” I smiled. “Well, there’s the drinking. And the drugs. And I beat up my husband.”

He smiles back.

And there’s this PT, I thought. He has me doing all these exercises every day so I won’t be showing up to work until, say noon or so. Is that OK?

But I knew what he’d say to that – start earlier – so I kept that to myself.

When I got home I felt like I was ready to take on the world. But unfortunately that didn’t last and I couldn’t take Tom on the interview with me.

I didn’t sleep at all that night (my own fault – I tried to tell myself I wasn’t nervous but my hypothalamus wasn’t having any of it) and the next morning I was close to hyperventilating. Husband had helped me find and cull my samples. I had my resume. I knew exactly where I had to go.

The problem was not as much that I’d forgotten how to interview. I’d forgotten that I had to dress for one. And I hadn’t worn anything but slouchy, around-the-house crap, athletic ankle socks and sneakers for almost a year. I took a few deep breaths and reviewed my closet, found something that looked newspapery and then….crap.

I had no idea how to put on knee socks. It might sound easy to you, but to someone who hasn’t been able to shave her legs for almost a year, this was a bit of a challenge.

But I figured it out. And put on real shoes. And jewelry. It all felt so surreal to me. Dressing up. Selling myself. I’ve been leaving the house so frequently these days to go to the doctor or the pharmacist, I almost caught myself verifying if I had enough in my checkbook for the copay.

I got to the publisher’s office on time only to be told, “Weren’t you supposed to be here at noon?”

My stomach fell into my politically-correct brown suede loafers. I knew she said one. I knew I wrote down one. Swallowing, I reminded her of our conversation, correcting her as respectfully as I could.

“Oh, right,” she said. And pointed to the note she’d scribbled on her desk blotter.

My first not-good sign. Do I want to work for someone who scribbles her schedule on her desk blotter?

I think I did OK. Wished I had the samples she was looking for (unfortunately working for a European lighting manufacturer with a minimalist corporate culture doesn’t leave you with a lot of sexy design samples), and I wish I’d remembered to ask more questions. It was a nice-looking newspaper, yes, they clearly put their hearts and souls into the work, but overall there were too many not-good signs about the job (the frenetic pace, the low pay, the daily deadlines, the erratic hours, the claustrophobic office) and at the end, I thanked her, shook her hand and left.

I was glad it was over. Even when I got to my next destination, looked at the mirror in their hallway and realized I’d forgotten to put on makeup. Still, I was glad I’d gone. Gotten the first one out of the way. Like that guy you meet in the health club or the supermarket, the one who is good looking but not too good looking, to help you get over the Big One and get on with your life.

Except next time, I’ll sleep better. I’ll remember to put on makeup.

And I’ll know how to put on my socks.