Interview

Some things are just meant to be. Glancing at the sidewalk for no reason and finding that earring you lost six months ago, being home unusually early and getting an unexpected call from an old friend, discovering that forgotten pint of coffee ice cream in the back of the freezer at the end of a long day.

Me, getting the job for which I just interviewed.

The reason for my absolute confidence in this fact has nothing to do with how perfectly my qualifications match the job description (although they do, to a “t”) or the compatibility of the hours (fits my schedule like a glove) or the desirability of the work (very), and everything to do with the sudden impotence of the Big Three. You might know them as shoes, coffee, and chocolate—I’m more familiar with them as The reasons I’m Not More Successful.

I don’t think I’ve ever had specific occasion to mention my footwear concerns, but I have them in spades. No matter how many pairs of shoes I acquire, it seems I never have the pair I need; in fact, six or eight pairs of ill-fitting and awkwardly colored shoes in my collection serve no other purpose than to provide the illusion that I could, if pressed, become properly shod. In reality, I never have shoes in the right color, texture, or quantity for the occasion. For instance, I briefly considered wearing navy to the interview (as my favorite professor suggested was appropriate), but I own no shoes that allowed me to seriously entertain the option. So I went off the map and selected a multicolored skirt with a black base and a handful of flats that I tossed in the car.

I was to go to the interview immediately after returning to town from the early morning camp at which I’d been working, facilitating activities like pimping up flip-flops and tie-dying shirts. My plan was to change into interview clothes upon my return to the church parking lot from which we left that morning. I wasn’t until my toe ring caught the hem of my skirt that I realized that I’d brought none of the flats in with me, and that I was still wearing my camp creations. Of course, the hem held, because as I’ve already mentioned, I can’t mess this thing up. I had a good laugh at my reflection, sporting the skirt-and-flips look, and headed back to my car.

Surprised to see that I was running early, I decided that a pick-me-up was in order, considering that I’d been up since sunrise and was beginning to drag. Spotting a Starbucks on the horizon, my car instinctively turned, even as red flags began to wave madly in the periphery of my mind’s eye. I can’t begin to count the days of my life that that have gone off course at the sloshing of a wayward cup of joe, not to mention the equal foibles that have ensued from the taking of unplanned detours.

Ignoring my mental alert system, I headed into the shop. Flip. Flop. Flip. Flop. Ooops! Not good. I actually made it out in public wearing the fuzzy flips. Undaunted, I bought coffee—a big one. It sloshed. But not beyond the rim. I went back into the car and changed my shoes. I turned out of the parking lot—the wrong way. Ah ha! This is where things go wrong! I said to myself, almost in relief to be back on a normal script. However, I quickly and uneventfully corrected the error and found myself in the parking lot with ten minutes to spare.

I reached into my over-sized bag to double check my folder of important documents. All there. Check. For reasons unknown, I made a detour into a side compartment and—remember what I said about detours? –my hand came up slathered in melted chocolate. Regular Readers already know my position on chocolate in the car. Here, here, is where disaster hits, I acknowledged, stone faced. But there was a tube of wet wipes right within my grasp, and I inexplicably managed to erase all trace of the melted mess. I arrived at the front desk five minutes ahead of schedule, stain free in a cute skirt with matching pumps.

This is so meant to be.