I check my face in the mirror of the car visors. It’s only been 15 minutes and already the make-up is settling in on the wrinkles under my eyes. I look so tired; and I am. I close the mirror and put the visor back up. I grab my pair of sunglasses to help cover my eyes. It won’t remove the wrinkles, but I feel better knowing it’s not out there for the world to see.
Finally, the light turns green and I can make my left turn. I’ve driven on this road a million times, and I think I’m actually getting tired of it. All the cars are swaying between the right and left lanes. Normally, this is when I would put myself on auto-pilot and dream, but there have been crazy drivers out there lately. I have to keep an eye on every car around me.
More lights to sit and wait at.
I push the buttons on the radio to see if I can find something worth listening to for a change. For having six buttons offering different stations…none of them are playing a song. It’s all commercials. I hate this part the most. There’s nothing to listen to, and the CD’s have been overplayed… well, I only have two, so they’re practically worn out.
The light turns green and again, I start with the flow of traffic moving forward. I finally make it to my exit ramp and onto the interstate. This is always fun, because you have to find a way to slide in to traffic as smoothly as you can. Rarely, it happens. Most of the time I have to come to a complete stop at the end of the ramp and pray that a good Samaritan will let me in.
Ooh! Finally someone makes room. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I shout as I wave in my car hoping the person behind me can at least see my wave of thanks. I know they can’t hear me actually saying the thank you, but I feel it makes the wave of thanks more authentic.
As I stroll down the interstate I look for the electronic billboard to tell me how long my wait is going to be. I continue to move further down, and spot that it’s about a 7 minute wait. How they judge this, I will never know.
Knowing that I finally have time to myself, I start to let my eyes wander around to the other cars around me. They all have their destinations in mind. I don’t know where they’re heading, but at least I feel better knowing they’re in traffic too. I turn to glance at my passenger seat. I have my purse, and my resume and contact sheet sitting on top of it.
I don’t know how many times I’ve done this. I know I lost count. I sit and ponder the interview questions, and remind myself of what company it is I’m going to today.
I should really start writing these things down. Once, I went to an interview and had the wrong names of the people I was supposed to meet.
“No, we don’t have a Greg here,” she stated looking at me confused.
“Okay, well, I’m here for an interview, do you know anyone who might be expecting me?”
“Um, let me go check,” she squeezes out as she turns to make her way through another door towards the back.
Normally, I would be so nervous and scared that I said the wrong name… but I’m not. I’m tired. Look at my wrinkles. This has all practically became routine for me over the past few weeks.
I sit on one of the chairs as I’m waiting for the lady to return. Crossing my legs, I can barely remember what she looks like at this point. I look at my black pants, and my black shoes. I have a black coat on as well, with a black and white scarf.
I could pass for going to a funeral. Black is all I have. About 95% of the companies I have worked for have required ‘black pants’ as part of the uniform. I have plenty of black pants… and collared shirts. My head sinks, and I sigh.
I look around and asses the lobby that I am in. All of them have rather average pictures of either plants, random people doing an action, sometimes something nautical. It’s all really bland in the end. It kind of looks like they just threw anything on the wall to avoid white space.
I wiggle my feet as I’m waiting. I’m anxious to get in just so I can get out.
Remembering I have wrinkle lines under my eyes, I do a quick sweep with my fingers to remove anything that has set in.
I sit for about a beat longer, and then someone emerges from the back.
“Hello, Jessica! Hi I’m George. How are you?” the older gentleman says as he extends his hand.
“Hi, I’m well thank you. Yourself?” I return as I meet his handshake. I was always taught to have a strong handshake, so that’s what he gets.
“I’m good. Follow me and we’ll get started,” he motions towards the door, and I follow.
And then, the interview begins.