The No-Good, Very Bad Job Interview

So, we cut short our time at a family reunion week on account of my Tuesday job interview. The job was a part-time administrative job in an interesting area of the university. If I landed the job, I would have split the time between it and my upcoming research year. And after that...

"Are you giving up teaching?" relatives wanted to know.

"No. That is, I don't think so. It's only part-time."

You might say that I was overqualified for the job, which required only a BA. But that means little in this town, with its surfeit of overeducated and underemployed academic types. Still, I might have an edge, if only for all the part-time jobs I held while in graduate school. In applying for ther job, I'd created a resume, something I hadn't needed to do since I was 21. And I was surprised at how strong I managed to look on paper. I have a shadow career in graduate school, the result of my own distractions and the post-divorce necessity of paying a mortgage by myself.

I studied up on the history of the university, of this department. I was ready for any question the committee might have for me.

Except for this one, which kicked off the interview:

"How would you describe a satisfying day of work?"

It would be an understatement to say that I botched this one, and I botched it badly. I stammered. I rambled. I interrupted myself with stream of consciousness points that only made sense to me.

Next question: What would you say is your biggest weakness?

Softball! I'm ready for this one. But my carefully prepared answer isn't what comes out of my mouth. Instead, I'm horrified to hear myself referring to my research and how I struggle to make time for it. Research!? These employers don't care about my research. They need to hear about my organizational skills. They need to know that any research life, if I insist on having one, won't interfere with my work in their office.

The rest of the interview is a blur. Historically, I've been a good interviewee — skilled at reading my interviewers and able to present myself as the personable and highly competent candidate. On this day, however, my responses are impolitic, irrelevant, and tedious, as I swing between bouts of inarticulateness and logarrhea.

On my drive back from New Jersey, we'd listened to book on tape about Lyndon Johnson. As I chatter to my interviewers, I hear the narrator's voice in my head: "You are LBJ. Famous for giving long speeches in which he said absolutely nothing."

Am I hormonal? (I can't tell you how much I hate that word. But I have some bleeding that afternoon and worry that I am miscarrying.) Did I deliberately self-sabotage?

The interviewers' body language indicates that they are tired. Bored. I prattle on.

The narrator sighs. "Quagmire. What are you doing, Cello?"

I have bad-interview hangover all the rest of that day. And the next. And the next.

Finally, I write the principle interviewer a carefully worded thank you note, in which I attempt to do some damage control. I feel slightly better. But I can't stop fretting about my sorry performance and what it might mean. I wish I could interview again for another job —any job — just to put this feeling of failure behind me.

Adam is supportive, but also — I can tell — as appalled by my bad answers as I am. That feels lousy.

I learned something. And I’ll do better next time. But, boy, I wish I could sleep this yucky feeling away.