It’s My Interview, and I’ll Cry if I Want to

When I left the interview I immediately called Val, blubbering like an idiot.  “I ccccried in the interview, Val,” I said.  “I ffffucking cried! I can’t believe I did that!  I lost my chance!”

To which, she responded, “Wait a minute.  Take a breath.  Did you cry like this?  Like you are crying right now?!”

“Well, no, not like this, but there were tears.  I was, like, talking through tears.  But you know how ridiculous I look when I cry, Val!” I sniffled and moaned. “It’s just, the last question was something like ‘Is there anything else we should know about you in regards to this position?’  And it all just piled up – everything: how much I want it, how good I am at teaching, how this is my one shot.  And the tears just came.  Holy shit, I just cried in an interview!!”

“Okay, okay.  As long as you didn’t cry like this, we’re okay.  It’s okay.  Believe it or not, people like to see humanity, boo.  You showed them you are human and that you are seriously committed to teaching.”

“Yeah but what hiring committee hires the girl who cried in the interview?  I mean seriously.”

“I think you’re going to get it,” Val said.  “And when you do, you’re going to be able to write a blog about how you cried in the interview!”

Well, it turns out that even in this hardened world full of competition and the notion that we all need to be tough as nails, there are some people who are compelled by humanity.  Or who can at least see past the sniffling, teary-eyed face of the interviewee to the credentials and tenacity behind it.

If you are friends with me on Facebook, I’m sure you’ve by now seen that I accepted a full-time position teaching writing at a local community college.  What you might not know about me if you only really know me through Facebook updates is how badly I have wanted a position like this since, well, ever since I can remember.   And what you certainly haven’t known, until about 30 lines or so ago, is that I cried during the interview.  That’s right. 

The problem is, as aptly described on the “Confessions of a Community College Dean” blog, “Full-time teaching gigs in English are rare birds these days, requiring a daunting combination of talent, single-mindedness, and luck.”  As you can imagine, competition is stiff for these positions.  And so, it’s easy to understand the nerves piling up in addition to knowing that living in Central Maine, opportunities like this aren’t going to pop up often.  For me, the anticipation that had built up while preparing for the interview, the emotions, and raw desire (along with knowing that I can do an exceptional job in the position) were too much to bear, and by the last question, I was screwed.

I can’t deny the fact that in regular everyday life I’m a crier.  Ask my husband -- I cry often.  Sometimes happy tears, sometimes sad, sometimes frustrated, sometimes sympathetic.  The only common theme to the tears is that I can’t control them.  When I’m feeling the emotion, the tears are going to come.  Don’t get me wrong-- I want to control them.  I’d love to say I am a strategic crier, using the tears to my benefit.  But, I think even my husband will attest that there is nothing strategic about it.  The tears usually catch me just as off guard as they catch him.  And believe me, they caught me (and everyone else) off guard in that conference room.

So, this post isn’t to suggest that people should consider using tears strategically in their interview.  As a matter of fact, I highly suggest that you don’t, if only for the fact that the rest of your day will be spent in agony as you replay every second.  Do you think they still could see that I am qualified?  Was I able to pull it together fast enough to recover the interview? 

But it is to point out that, for those of us who are sometimes overwhelmed with an emotion or yearning, we don’t necessarily need to get down on ourselves.  Unlike my answers to most of the other questions, there was nothing strategic or thought out about my tears.  They came from such a genuine and well-intentioned place that I truly believe the committee was able to not only see beyond them, but to also see what those tears, and my recovery after them, said about me.  Was I embarrassed?  Of course I was!  BEYOND embarrassed.  I freaking cried in an interview! But I didn’t let that show because, though the actual tears were embarrassing, I was not at all embarrassed or ashamed of the impetus behind them.  They came from my passion.

And so, this is the lesson for us all.  Never try to be anything but what you are because people appreciate seeing the real you.  They appreciate authenticity.  And for that reason, I am able to hold my head up high as I pass by those on the hiring committee on the way to my new office.

Not all who wander are lost

Dedicated to my Laura and Alex and their best friend, Katie

I bought the lavender Life is Good shirt with that phrase dead center at least 7 years ago.  I still wear it whenever I can, usually putting a zip up sweatshirt over it to prolong wearing the short sleeves into the winter; okay, and to hide the darkened underarms (what can I say, I’ve walked at least 100 miles in that shirt, and it shows). My cousins Laura and Alex and their friend Katie are embarking on an adventure, consciously wandering from Florida to Seattle (Laura is already there and Alex and Katie are joining her shortly), and during a recent phone conversation with Alex, this phrase kept coming into my head as I encouraged her to grab the experience and run with it.  

 As a side note, I can’t resist explaining that Laura and Alex are much more than cousins to me.  I know mothers out there will say it isn’t possible until you have your own, but often, I say I genuinely understand a mother’s love for her children because of how I feel about them.  It’s a love so deep it brings me to tears just thinking about it and typing it.  I have changed their diapers, babysat them during summers, watched them grow, and shared mini-adventures with them.  I feel a protectiveness of them unlike anything I have known and such a pure desire to see them take this life and make it what they want it to be that I can only liken it to motherhood.  The good thing is that we have a bond like sisters, so it’s fun and easy, and I can keep my crazy protectiveness under wraps.  Okay, side note finished.  (And by the by, please don’t take this paragraph as an invitation to convince me why I should have kids.  I can have these strong feelings and still choose not to be a mother).

Consciously wandering; yes, that’s where I was. We all have different paths to forge in life, but some of us like to test more than one path before making a decision on where we belong.  We don’t wander because we avoid making decisions or because we can’t choose; we wander because we don’t want to be restricted to a path before we’re ready.  So, we travel up this one and that one, testing them out, trying them on to see if they fit, and when they don’t, we turn around-- appreciative of what we learned-- but ready to move on.  Some of us test out jobs in this way; some of us move a lot; some of us travel; some of us do the unexpected, like drop out of college for a while; some of us (like me) do all of these things. And because I know how much courage it takes to consciously wander and how many people misunderstand our need to do it, I leave my girls with this:

We are wanderers, but we are not lost.  We know exactly where we are at all times.  And in the end, when we do find that path where we belong, we know ourselves inside and out.  We have created ourselves, in fact, instead of letting the pre-defined or status quo paths create us.  Some paths we choose are not easy, but we learn as much from the pain and challenge of these experiences as we do from the joy of others. Sometimes, we end up right back where we started, realizing we belonged there all along, but richer for the journey and peaceful in the knowledge that we chose this place instead of it choosing us.

But do you want to know the most surprising thing about wanderers?  We understand that, in the end, we can never be trapped by where we are; we can only be trapped by who we are*.   And that’s why we are never lost.

*Phrase appropriately stolen from a rock I bought on Big Sur in California during one of my conscious wandering trips.

My Kind of Fairy Tale

A friend passed this along to me, but I’m not sure of the original source.  I can’t possibly say anything better than it, so my contribution to this post will be short.

Anyone who knows me will, immediately after reading this, understand why I love it so much.  Those who don’t know me might feel sorry for my husband.  But, part of the reason for my post -- besides to share with you all what I think is awesome -- is to say that my husband’s response to this fairy tale when I emailed it to him confirmed why I am married to the one and only guy for me.  I’ll let you read it first so as not to give away any spoilers:

 

My one true love's perfect response?   “I’m glad you ate that frog bastard!”  How great is that? 

Don't Burn the Day

“When you face death, it’s like facing a wall, and it forces you to turn around and look at the life you’ve lived … The prevailing mythology is that you die the way you live and you can't change yourself in any way. The fact is that the last few months of life — because of the awareness of death — create an urgency that facilitates growth and change.”  William Breitbart, a psychiatrist at Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York.  (from an NPR broadcast).

I have become a person who listens to NPR on the way towork.  I’m not sure when the change from jamming to some DMB to tuning into talk radio in the morning occurred, but I have found that after 30, things like this just happen, so I roll with them.   I still jam to music on the way home from work because I refuse to completely give myself over to the dark side as a grown-up who loses touch with the magic of music.  (My current obsessions are Adele’s 21 and Ray Lamontagne’s God Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise if anyone is looking for some new tunes).  None of this speaks to my point (except the listening to NPR part) so I’ll get on with it.

During my Monday morning drive, NPR was airing a story about dignity therapy titled, “For the Dying, a Chance to Rewrite Life.”  A psychiatrist was discussing his years of research and practice of allowing dying patients to come to terms with death by essentially writing the history of their life to pass on to whomever they choose.  It was intriguing to hear about how people reinterpreted events while facing death.  He explained that people feel the need to assert themselves in the face of death, to be seen in a way of their choosing.  Essentially (though not surprisingly), facing death changed perspective and priorities.  Thus, the quote I began this post with. 

What struck me so much about the segment was that I realized that probably the reason I live such a full (and sometimes mentally exhausting) life – ever changing, growing, turning directions if something isn’t working or if I don’t feel happy– is because I make decisions and live life as if facing death every day.  Because… we are.  I know some people could construe this as depressing, but I think most people who know me would say that I am anything but a depressed person.  It’s just that, I have this one chance to build my life, and as touching as these stories were, I don’t want to wait until I reach my death bed to grow and change.  I don’t want to have a regret or memory that I feel the need to reinterpret.  It might be the only time when, as a writer and writing teacher, I would call “rewriting” a dirty word.  I want to face death and think, “Now that was one hell of a life, and I wouldn’t change a thing.”  It may mean I change my mind a lot and over-analyze how I feel about situations, but I can accept that. 

Not knowing when I’ll face my actual death bed forces me to make every day a good day to die.  And for me, there’s just no other way to live. 

Polygamy: don't knock it til you try it

I’m sure many of you clicked on the link to see what I could possibly have to say in favor of being married to more than one person, but hear me out.  I’m not saying it would be okay with me if my boo fell in love with another woman and wanted to marry her, expecting me to share him in the bedroom.  I might have to go all Baltimore on someone if that ever happened.  And I damn-straight-skippy know he would sooner set the house on fire than hear of sharing me with another man.  Although, some days I’m sure he wishes I were another husband’s headache, but I digress.  Luckily, that’s not the kind of polygamy I’m advocating here.  I’m advertising the agnostic, platonic, based-on-common-sense kind of polygamy.

You see, I married Marcus two years ago, but technically, I was married well before that.  To my friend, Val.  And I didn’t divorce her just because I found my male soul mate.  Man, don’t I hate when women (and men) do that.  Well before we got married but when we were in the serious enough phase to have such talks, I explained to Marcus that I don’t believe that someone’s spouse always has to come first.  I explained that, while he would obviously be one of the most important people in my life, he shouldn’t expect to be the only or the most important person in my life all the time. Don’t worry, I went on to explain how his friend, Ken, should always be as important to him as me and that sometimes, Ken would be more important, and that’s okay.  And it’s my firm belief that this is one of the reasons why we have such a strong marriage.

While the media always speculates about the nature of Oprah and Gayle’s relationship, I completely understand it.  In fact, one time when Marcus and I were talking about it, I explained by saying they were just like Val and me.  He got it right away.  The reason why everyone likes to assume they “must be gay,” (well, besides the fact that the media is ridiculous) is because for some reason our society has decided that a spouse or significant other is the only person you should do certain things with: vacation, have slumber parties, talk to on the phone a hundred times a day, etc.  And this is simply bogus. 

Both Marcus and Val’s husband understand that Val and I keep each other in check in a way that they never could.  Do you think Marcus wants to hear me obsess about what I said that someone might have taken out of context?  Um, no.  I can tell by the way his eyes glaze over as he tries his hardest to pay attention.  Do you think I want to hear about professional wrestling?  Call Ken, honey. Men and women are different, and that’s what makes marriage dynamic and exciting.  But those differences can cause huge problems if you don’t let yourself rely on other people as well.  Life is big and complicated and fantastic and scary all at once.  In my mind, the only way to experience it to its fullest is to have more than one person on your team. Marcus couldn’t (and wouldn’t want to) handle all that I could throw his way, so he happily and gratefully shares me with Val and my other friends.  And in turn, I have much more to give him instead of expecting too much from him.

I have a lot of people on my team because I make it a point to cultivate all my friendships even though it means that sometimes Marcus plays second fiddle.  But there is something so comforting about having a “wife” who feels just as committed to me as Marcus does.  We may not have exchanged vows or made a big ceremony of it, but Val and I have an understood bond and commitment to making sure we each live our best life and that we’re never alone in doing it.  Having a wife makes me a better wife, and if that makes me a polygamist, well then, my only question would be, why aren’t you?

Sundee Undies

Often, Sunday morning conversations between my husband and me go a little like this:

Me: “Awww, Man!” (My go-to exclamation in a high-pitched voice for anything I lost, dropped, broke, can’t figure out, you name it.)

Him: “What happened?” (Said in his usual, I-won’t- be-surprised-by –anything-you-say-after-living-with-you-for-almost- 4 years, tone)

Me: “My Sundee undies are in the hamper!  It’s Sunday – I need my Sundee undies!”

Him: “Sorry, dude.”

You see, I believe it’s the little things in life that create the greatest happiness and contentment.  And my pair of Sundee undies is just one of those little things.  Actually, maybe I shouldn’t call them little because there is nothing dainty about them, and that’s the whole point!  The first time the hubbs saw me in them, he told me I look like professional wrestler Bruce Santino.  For the record, that’s not the guy’s name at all.  I had a lot of trouble remembering his name the first few times; though I could have sworn I heard Bruce Santino.  No matter, because regardless of how many times I’m corrected (or even if I remember the real name), that’s the name I use when I call the Sundee undies by their other alias – my Bruce Santino’s.  If you want to know the real guy’s name for a reference, no doubt Marcus will add a comment under this post correcting me for the umpteenth time.

Anyway, I digress from my point – that’s right, I do have a point I was planning on getting to after I finished divulging TMI.  So, why do a pair of clearly unattractive, clearly un-sexy undies provide a source of happiness?  Well, first and foremost because they are comfortable as hell.  Don’t get me wrong, I like to avoid panty lines as much as the next girl, and I want to try to be cute for my boo.  So, 6 days a week I don the appropriate underwear for such things. 

But on Sundays -- oh, Sundays – I get to remove myself from the everyday world and forego these societal pressures!  It’s my way of claiming a day for myself where I don’t need to worry about anyone or anything.  These Bruce Santino’s represent all things that are lazy, indulgent, rebellious, and relaxing.   And we all need at least one day a week where we allow ourselves to duck out of the world as much as possible to recharge.  So on this sure-to-be-rainy-from-Irene Sunday, I wish for all of you the chance to find a pair of Sundee undies or some other equally comfortable and indulgent symbol of the Sunday Funday.

Biting the Bullet

I didn't watch Sex and the City until it had ended its six-season run. I didn't read Harry Potter until the last book was published. I didn't get a cell phone until my friends finally bought me one because they were sick of me being the only one they couldn’t reach (and worrying about me taking night classes at my university in Baltimore City). I didn't join Facebook until well after it was established as "the" social networking site (and I might add until I moved far away from my home town and needed to keep in touch more easily). The list goes on, and includes life decisions as well as technology ones. My point is: I don't tend to follow the hype. I like to make my own decisions on when to enter into the current craze--and I usually prefer to enter once it's no longer considered a craze.

This is how I find myself a 33-year-old former writing teacher -- with a current job where my main duty is writing -- who is just now entering the blogging world. My only foray into the genre was a blog I was required to keep for a class called Digital Writing in the Classroom. In the interest of full disclosure, that first paragraph up there was stolen from the first post I ever made to that blog.  All writers know you need to start with something, and most are taught to start with something already written, so there you have it.

Clearly, I like writing, given my current and former professions.  And clearly, if I gave in to the Facebook craze, I might as well give in to the blogging one.  It’s like my friend Sarah and I say: Sometimes things are a trend for a reason.  Things don’ t exactly become crazy popular because they suck, now do they? Let’s face it: Sex and the City was all that and a bag of potato chips – so much so that I’m right now watching a repeat episode on E! that I’ve likely seen 10 times (the one where she dates the ballplayer and runs into Big, for all my fellow fans out there).  And the Harry Potter books? Pure magic, no pun intended.

The bottom line is that, I process things by writing up reactions, summaries, and stories in my head.  I’ve essentially been keeping a brain blog for three years.  Why not put it on paper and torture others too? If nothing else, the people who know me and love me might get a chuckle and feel more connected even though we live far apart. And at the end of the day I will be writing. Not teaching writing; not writing to fulfill a requirement; not writing about a hydroelectric facility; not writing to jump on the bandwagon that I had convinced myself blogging had become. Writing because I love to do it. Writing because I need to do it. Writing because I have something to say that someone else--or no one else--wants to hear.

Because Stephen King's right: writing regularly is the point. Doing it for joy is the point. Someone else actually reading what we've written? Well, that's just icing on the cake.