Blog: How not to ace an interview

Well folks, you’ll be relieved to discover that I will not be editor in chief of The Volante this coming year.

I know you were all hoping and praying that I would take over and just publish pictures of puppies every week, but alas, I interviewed and was not chosen.

But let me tell you about the interview.

I had the perfect outfit. It was classy and involved sky-high red heels, but I still looked professional. I wore a gray knit dress with patterned back tights and a shiny scarf; I was killing it.

The problem with my heels was that even though I was technically closer to God, he decided he wasn’t going to look out for me. On the way to my interview, as I precariously crossed the rugged parking lot next to the apartment complex where I live, I realized my slow and careful trek was blocking a car that was attempting to pull into the lot.

I teetered over to the side of the path so that the car could pass, but the problem with teetering is that it is usually done slowly. As a result, the car behind me grew impatient and honked.

My caffeine addiction causes me to be pretty jumpy, so when the blast hit my eardrums, I jumped and squealed a little.
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My descent from the jump then became one of the most unsexy slow-motion moments of my life as I came down on my heel wrong and simply kept falling, down, down, down to my knees.

Tights are tricky suckers and like to fall apart at a moments notice, so when my knee came into contact with the pavement, it tore a hole the size of a silver dollar in my delicate hosiery. I also semi-mooned the jerk driving the car behind me, but that was beside the point; my outfit was ruined!

But there was no time to change. Embarrassed, I turned to the driver of the car and waved at them with my middle finger before dashing to my own car. Cheeks burning, I sped out of the lot and down Cherry Street to the Al Neuharth Media Center, where I was to be interviewed.

Upon parking, I discovered that not only did I have a hole in my tights, but I was also bleeding profusely from a massive scrape. I gingerly held Kleenex over my wound as I hobbled into the building, hoping the blood would clot soon.

But I’m never that lucky. Just as I thought I had stopped the bleeding for good, it was my turn to interview for the coveted position of editor in chief. I strode into the meeting room with my head held high where about a dozen people sat, waiting to decide my fate.

The interview went

smoothly, except for the awkward, warm feeling of blood oozing down my leg beneath what was left of my tights. When I wasn’t awarded the position, I asked the newspaper adviser if anybody had noticed the

gaping hole in my otherwise flawless outfit.

“Oh yeah,” he replied smugly, “we all talked about it after you left.”

For a whole five seconds, I honestly believed him.

Why didn’t they pick the girl whose “great idea” for the newspaper was to hand out free pens and coffee cups so that more students would read The Volante? I just don’t understand. (And dear reader, I hope you catch my sarcasm.)

Seriously though, I’m a little relieved they didn’t pick me, because now I get to remain Verve editor and hopefully do some really fun and amazing things with the section this coming semester.

So, while I know there are real, valid reasons why I was not chosen for the position, in my mind, it will always be the fault of that jerk that honked at me.