There is sweat on my brow. My underarms are damp. My eyes are filled with tears of humiliation and frustration. I am panicked, I am grunting and almost hyperventilating. This is a brief description of two separate events that happened to me in the last 24 hours.
First, I went to the mall yesterday. I had a meeting with a recruiter this morning and needed some nicer “interview clothes.” Even though I’ve been working out hard, I’m still in a very bad size and it doesn’t make me happy to buy expensive clothes. I tried on a suit, but decided that even though I’m almost 40, I still look like a kid wearing her mother’s stuff. There were lots of President’s Day Sales, and after running back and forth between two stores and trying on things three different times, I came up with a few outfits. I’m unhappy with the sizing, the fitting room mirrors and the two bitches that were in Macy’s yesterday discussing whether a size 4 or 6 looked better. Shut the hell up ladies.
The second event occurred this morning. We know I am not a morning person. I have my routine down to a science and stay in bed until the very last minute. Today’s routine should not have been much different. I didn’t take the pantyhose into consideration. I hate pantyhose and never wear them. I think they are uncomfortable and don’t fit right. I thought I battled this evil properly by going to Macy’s and getting a pair yesterday. I thought that a nicer brand with a bigger price tag would do the trick. I even followed the stupid chart on the back and bought the correct size.
Initially, I was impressed when I took them out of the package. They were properly made and shaped like feet at the bottom. The cheap ones from Walmart don’t have feet, or a tag, so you get to guess front or back before starting battle. For a description of how this battle went, refer back to the first paragraph of this post. It didn’t help matters any to have Sugar and Spice alternating at the bathroom door, knocking and wondering aloud what was going on in there! Step away from the mad, sweating, hissing, drooling mama.
And now, I’m late. I throw on the boots and rush down the stairs and what happens? The fucking pantyhose start sliding down my belly. By the time I got to the kitchen, the hose have settled halfway down my ass. I don’t have time, nor do I have another pair, so I classily hitch ‘em up and do a few lunges. Yeah, that’ll help. I used private time in the parking garage, elevator and bathroom to readjust myself three times before the damn interview.
There’s not a lot to be said about the interview. I didn’t want to go and I don’t have good stories as to why I’m looking for a new job. “Seeking employment with growth potential” is scurvy at an interview. You’re basically saying to the person interviewing, “Yeah, I’m here for the shitty job you are advertising to fill, but someday I’ll be sitting in your office.” Anyway, she was only a recruiter and didn’t leave me with much hope. I make too much money have haven’t done anything really marketable for the last eight years. Go me!
I arrived at work only an hour late and Fancypants could hardly contain his excitement at seeing me in interview clothes. It’s obvious where I’ve been. He’s dying to know how it went, etc. Maybe he’s being kind and honestly wants me to find a new, better opportunity or maybe he just wants to see my fat ass leave this place for the last time.
Here it is, mid afternoon and I’m still sporting these pantyhose. They’ve settled nicely halfway down my ass. I told Snorting Girl of my wardrobe malfunction and she suggested masking tape. Who knew? I don’t have any, so I’m off to the ladies room with a stapler. Wish me luck.