It was spring, 1984, and my wardrobe had never been snappier. My mom, who isn't much of a haranguer but is a darned good dresser, made me one of her projects that spring, and part of that project involved my wardrobe.
To think that I'd been talked into plaid skirts, blazers with shoulder pads and even (egad!) a top that had a frou-frou bow on it. . . well, let's just say we both were a little out of our heads at the time.
The other part of my mom's project involved me getting a real job.
Both parts proved to be somewhat painful. Looking back, though, I'd say the clothes were more painful than the interviews. Aside from one.
Mutual of Omaha was looking for a writer. God knows what kind of writing takes place in an insurance agency, but my mom convinced me that it was a job with my name on it. I filled out an application and managed to get myself an interview.
(An aside: while I consider myself to be an independent person, there are portions of my life in which I have so little interest that I am willing to literally stand in the middle of the room, raise my hands over my head and let someone else dress me. Otherwise, I think I'm rather nicely balanced. This is not a story of balance, however.)
Yeah, so my mom dressed me. Yeah, so she loaned me her car which, unlike my Fiat, actually had air conditioning. And, yeah, she even talked me into wearing a dumpy pair of shoes while I drove up to Omaha, so that I wouldn't scuff my fancy heels. What's it to ya?!
I was fifteen minutes outside of Omaha when I had myself a private little giggle. My eyes first scanned the professional pleated skirt, then made their way down my freshly shaved legs, so nicely caressed by full-length hose. Finally, looking down at my feet, the dumpy old leatherback turtle shoes covering them, I thought how funny it would be if I had forgotten my other shoes.
About three seconds later, I realized that it really wasn't funny at all. Never before had I so longed for a freshly-polished pair of high heels. Heck, I was even kind of longing for a purse and a compact, and I'm not even sure why.
Ten minutes to Mutual. I'm panicking so I pull over and call my brother Steve, who lives in Omaha, frantically asking him what I should do. He chuckles a bit and suggests saying nothing unless someone happens to notice the shoes, and then making light of the situation.
Unless someone "happens to notice the shoes?" That would be like walking into a circus tent and happening to notice the elephant in the ring. Let me give you a visual. Remember that Carol Burnett skit in which she's a homely cleaning lady?
Yeah, that was me.
Only I was going for my first "real job" interview and it was at a big company that even had its own TV show.
The next hour was painful, in the way a colonoscopy without anesthesia is painful. I must have joked and cajoled, cleared my throat and "heh heh heh'd" about 20 times during the interview.
I didn't get the job.
No, really, I didn't. But I did learn an important lesson.
Sometimes it's better not to name the elephant.
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