The morning of the interview I panicked. I couldn’t find my black suit. My lucky black suit– the one I wore to argue before the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals.
I lost that argument. Screw that suit. I guess it was a good thing I accidentally gave it away during a spring cleaning binge.
So, I wore the gray one. The gray one’s kind of lucky too, I guess. The last job interview I had I wore the gray one, and I got the job, which only lasted about eight months, but still. It’s lucky to get a job. But also, I once got dumped wearing the gray suit– I’m pretty sure he was gay and it was nothing personal, but you can’t have a suit that you got dumped in be your lucky suit.
So last week, in my
lucky gray suit, I sat nervously wondering if all the legal knowledge I once had at my fingertips was still rattling around my cerebellum like a trapped and aging squirrel. I stayed up way too late the night before preparing for the interview by reading legal-y things and asking myself interview questions.
Me to myself: “Why should I hire you?”
Myself to me: “I am very punctual, and I was kind of a big deal at law school.”
Me to myself: “I see you graduated a decade ago. What have you done since then?”
Myself to me: “I have held down a few jobs. I currently do arbitrations between my 3-year old and my 22-month old on a thrice-daily basis. Heady business, my life.”
Me to myself: “Why aren’t you wearing a traditional black suit?”
Myself to me: “I find black suits to be harsh. Plus, it makes me look washed out, because I am a winter.”
I was acing my practice interview.
On the elevator ride up, I did what I always do: braced myself for disappointment. If I don’t get the job, then it’s more time to write and be with the kids.
You can imagine my surprise when I left the interview 2 hours later with a job offer. When she said, “it’s yours if you want it,” I said, “I want it.” Then we stared at each other with that awkward “what’s next?” energy between us.
Not until I reached the elevator did I realize what had just happened: I got a job. A real JAY-OH-BEE. Holy W-2 forms. Without cell reception, I was forced to entertain myself on the elevator ride down with my own thoughts. The horror.
My first thought? Crap. Do I have to change the name of my blog because I just took a law job? BackinLaw Mama? In and out of Law Mama?
My second one? Maybe it’ll be good to change the name. I’ve got a great name for a blog: Please Butter My Biscuits. Does that sound too sexual? Too starchy?
My third one? Man, I’m hungry.
My fourth one? I have to pee so bad. Why didn’t I go before I left?
My fifth one? DO NOT think about missing your kids. It’s only 20 hours a week. DO NOT GO TO THE BAD MOTHER STATION. TURN AROUND. GO TOWARDS THE LIGHT.
My seventh one? New job means NEW WARDROBE.
And that’s how I ended up having make-up sex with Ann Taylor Loft last week, which was awesome timing with the 50% off everything sales running for the holidays. She was cold at first– still upset about our break up— but she forgave me quicker than Taylor Swift finds new boyfriends.
So we are definitely back together, and I already bought a new black suit. It’s my new lucky suit.