Toothy Interview

I’ve been interviewed umpteen times. True and I’ve come to discover one thing; that I can never get used to interviews. I will have the same old insane stomach cramps probably even worse than those of a 1st timer. I realized the only thing I get better at are my answers to familiar questions. But then again I’ve never been to an interview overwhelming enough to pull out my previously decayed but silent tooth.

For eight months I’d been busy being a mom and wife since Baby Pesh’s arrival. That was enough to deform my once slim feet into an ugly flat sight, thanks to wearing flat, open shoes. Pesh had grown into a slightly independent young girl and so pulling back into the employment highway was the next best thing. Like any other flamboyant job seeker I dropped my resume’ anywhere they could land.

No call backs came through for me, at least not until late August 2010 when one finally did. An appointment!  An interview! Finally! My excitement could only be brought down by a bucketful of ice water. I obviously called my husband and we both floated in the pending success. The joy however ended rather drastically as soon as the call dropped and the reality of a possible interview panel crossed my mind. I noted I didn’t really need a bucket of ice water. I quickly found myself a spot to sit on and psychologically prepare myself for what lay ahead. I had to do it well. I browsed the net for the company’s profile details, aims and every other unnecessary detail they put across. Crap! I even made sure I was on point on which ministers were in charge of the relevant sectors! By the time I was walking through the reception of the building where I was invited for the interview I felt like my mind would burst with all the answers I had to the un-asked questions.

I carefully scanned my well over 20 competitors’ faces searching for the slightest implication of fear or uncertainty. I assumed their feeding of fear would starve mine and I would end up a winner or close. Selfishness was my sole recipe’ in character in this case and I knew the rest too, prayed the same prayer. “God, This job is mine. You brought me here for a reason so I know it’s mine.” Seriously, if all 20 interviewees prayed this prayer, then I’m awfully glad I’m not God to answer them. Their dressing was exquisite with well-fitting ironed suits. Folders that most probably carried their life stories were held neatly under their arms. .I decided I needed a workable strategy to pull this off successfully.

I marched quietly to the nearest empty seat and squirmed in it until my name was called I struggled to be firm as my remaining competitors watched my every movement.  Those who had left before me had all variety of facial expressions. Some looked as fearful as a child who just got a painful jab in the ass, others smiled amid defeated-looking faces, it confused me on what to expect so I chose to hide my horror through my killer smile. Don’t ask what that means.

I walked in well, armed with my documents and a classy handbag which I knew best to keep on the floor next to my feet, right after the seat was offered. I then crossed my shaky legs under my seat to keep them from embarrassing me and at last faced the panel. It felt like judgement day.

“Your name?” one of them asked.I blurted it out. “Please spell?” I always do that to everyone I meet. I understand Fanne is not an easy name and my mother refused to tell me from whence she dug it up. The questions got harder and harder until I was asked if I had any questions for them. I obviously did. I was eventually sent home and promised a call back before the end of the day which if it were positive I’d go to the next level. It was just the beginning.

I went home feeling exhausted from all the nervousness and now I was anxious for the results. It didn’t make it better. I slept miserably since no one called me, and began nursing the wound the disappointment caused. Early the next day I was called and told to report for the second interview. Phew! I was too tired to get excited, yet I managed a stolen one at least to remind myself of a certain stranger I call hope.

Second interview brought to me some nostalgic memories. It was a written exam and I couldn’t remember half the things I was asked. I thought to do what my fellow mates did. Yes we all cheated in all sorts of ways. We used everything from texting to whispers and peeks, even Google. Thank god for Google. We all went home again to wait impatiently for the big call. This time I slept well. I was called late at around &pm and informed of my great success, even congratulated. I had qualified for the last stage which was yes another interview with the head of the company we were to work for. I still ask myself if this was really necessary. The lady shouldn’t have mentioned the position of the last interviewer. She only made it worse. I role played the interview about 76 times playing both the interviewer and I. I thought up all the possible questions to expect. I nearly killed myself. Still I felt I wasn’t ready. That was when the bad tooth arose from hell and began complaining. I carried some painkillers to the interview which eventually turned out well. The waiting that was destroying me was apparently good for me. By the time it was my turn he had been exhausted extensively and looked like the only thing he craved was his silent, never-busy office. He asked me two or three general questions and let me go. I was relieved and rushed straight to my dentist. The painkillers I’d taken were clearly doing a shoddy job and it had to be pulled out.

So I lost a tooth at the height of tension. Yeah, I too couldn’t believe it; but it would have been worse had all this not been worth it.