The Next Big Thing

Prologue

Monday

I'm trying not to count them in my head, but I can't help it: This is job interview number eleven this month.

Things I've learned from the other ten: leave early to allow for slowdowns on the Metro, wear tennis shoes and then switch to flats before the interview, carry extra resume copies, and make sure I always have mints in my purse.

For a second, I'm proud that I'm getting better at this, then the sense of shame sets in: 11 job interviews. No job yet.

And not one of these interviews is my dream job. Go ahead, laugh: Liberal arts education. Career goal:writer. Chance of being able to afford rent and bills? Currently: none.

There are plenty of things I'm trying to hide on this interview, too: the sweat running down my back because my God, D.C. is hot. The black scuff on my only pair of nude flat shoes appropriate for interviews. I've got my feet crossed perfectly to cover it now.

I'm wearing the same outfit I've worn to all the others: a nice tailored black suit. Also known as: hot as hell. I bought the black because I thought it would be "slimming." But let's be honest- I'm over trying to slim down a size 18 frame.

Being "too big" isn't a legit reason for someone to turn down a prospective employee, but it sure feels like it's been an undertone in more than one ghosting post-interview.

I am what I am. I'm not here for an athletics job- I'm here to be an executive assistant to the president of a life insurance brokerage.

With a master's degree, I thought this would be easier. I studied history and communications. It shouldn't be this hard to get a job.

And if getting a job were the only issue, I'd have it locked down already.

But nothing's been the right fit.

There was interview number three, in which a real estate broker was screaming at the very assistant who I interviewing to replace. When I met Dr. Jekyll in the conference room for our chat, he was civil. Acted like I must have missed his tirade about buying the wrong copy paper.

There were interviews number two, four, seven, nine, and ten, in which I'd been told I was overqualified. What seemed like a compliment now had me questioning whether this was the job version of "I'm just not looking for a relationship right now," A casual but firm brush-off.

Having spent six years in college and grad school, I knew my resume was rock solid. Great references. Strong internships and even experience working as a TA while getting my masters. Good grades.

But welcome to recession life- I see hundreds of other men and women just like me pounding the pavement every day. Trying to balance in line at Starbucks whether we deserve an expensive latte after another failed interview or lead gone awry.

I know I can't let my mind drift in these critical moments before I'm called back into the room. But all my typical pep talk methods won't work anymore: I NEED the job this time. I can't let this one go.

I look around the office I'm sitting in to get a better feel for the atmosphere. It's different than a lot of the places I've interviewed, maybe because it's not in D.C. proper. This job is much closer to the apartment I've just moved into with my college roommate, Charlie. Germantown, Maryland is just at the skirted edge of the D.C. suburbs too expensive for us recent grads to afford. It's not near the metro line for another several miles of painful traffic on 270, and this front office job is not my dream gig, but it's a bike ride from our apartment complex.

I have to smile because I spent months pre-graduation poring over LinkedIn leads, the alumnae network site, and career websites. But I found this receptionist job in the classified ads of the newspaper. Old school.

Since I've been sitting here in the open front office, one woman has walked by completely barefoot. Another is wearing a tank top. The entire office staff I've seen so far is female. At a life insurance brokerage. It seems like a strange fit for an all-female business, but I am not in a position to judge. I am six weeks unemployed.

And too tired to spend four hours at the unemployment office trying to figure out why they denied my application. I'm down to the last $1,200 I saved working three jobs in grad school. I'm 24 years old and it's time to adult, but no one wants to open the gates and let me in.

The woman at the front desk is quiet, clicking away on a keyboard, alternated with scanning documents and transferring phone calls. She seems friendly but bored.

I took a different tack with this job because it was part time. The close location might make up for it, but if I land this interview, I'll have to get another job in the evenings.

I feel my phone buzz in my black leather purse. It was a nice graduation gift from my mom, straight from Macy's. Bought with money from her booming career as a sex toy saleswoman. That's a story for another day.

I slip the phone out of the bag and glance. A Gmail notice. From Edulex, my student loan servicer. "Don't forget- repayments start in a few months!"

As if I needed a reminder. As if that wasn't the cause of my night sweats already. 

"Ms. Hopewell?" A rail-thin woman balancing on four-inch heels says, appearing around the corner. "Ready for the interview?"

I present my biggest smile and stand up confidently. "Of course!" I say in the chipper voice I've adopted for this process. I hope my bravado reads like a good cover. Because seriously? I need this job.