Palms are sweaty. Knees weak. Arms are heavy.
I’m walking up to yet another office for yet another job interview.
Job interviews are stressful. If you suffer from anxiety like I do, job interviews are the worst.
And sadly, being a freelancer, my life is full of them. And they don’t get any easier.
The worst ones are when I really want the job. The jobs I really want involve writing.
Today, the job involves writing and for a company I really want to work for.
I’ve made an effort – I’ve even brushed my hair – but inside… I’m a mess.
I walk in, with my portfolio of pitches and ideas ready to sell myself. It’s taken every ounce of energy to myself in that room and put myself through this painful process again. I take a deep breath.
And I go for it, I push myself to the limit, smile and widen my eyes and spew out all my enthusiasm and excitement. I’m running through my ideas, cracking my jokes and pushing the tiny dregs of non existent confidence I have to the edge. Brick by brick, I build a wall of confidence to protect myself. By the end of my pitch I’ve got a tough, confident exterior, but it’s protecting a quivering wreck underneath.
The man opposite doesn’t appear to be listening. He’s staring down at my CV.
I finish my pitch and wait. I wait for what feels like an hour… but it was probably 30 seconds or so.
Long enough to feel as if the wall is starting to wane.
Eventually he speaks.
“I got you in today because you’re CV is great. It intrigued me. (My CV, like all ‘great’ CV’s should, opens with a porn star joke). It’s a cheeky CV.
“You’re cheeky. I like cheeky…though now you’re here. In front of me. I’m looking at you and I do wonder if you might be too silly for a job like this. A bit too much of a bimbo… what do you think?”
And with that, my wall crumbled.