S.W.F. Seeks J.O.B. is our new monthly career advice column penned by Judy McGuire, a sex and relationships expert who also happens to be hilarious. Judy will help us understand how the rules for dating and job hunting are a lot alike — and how the victories in one part of your life can be applied to the other.
I’ve spent the better part of the last decade writing about relationships for a variety of places, including the Seattle Weekly, TheFrisky.com, Time.com, and the New York Press. Hell, I even wrote a book called How Not to Date, which the Huffington Post called “one of the ten most underrated humor books” of the past few years. But even after ten-plus years both freelancing (a.k.a. looking for work 24/7) and writing about dating, it was years before I realized how similar the two truly are.
I’ve certainly sat through more than my fair share of awkward dates. The dinner conversations that turn into an excuse for the guy to list every asset in his portfolio. The meet-ups for drinks that begin with a disappointed glance (his) and end in tears (mine). Sure, there are highs and there are hookups, but for every great night out, there’s also equal or better amounts of discomfort, disappointment, and downright dismay.
It’s also true that for every amazing job I’ve gotten, I’ve been on as many ego-shattering, confidence-draining interviews. It took me a while to connect the two, though, because most of my jobs have happened through word of mouth, or just through email exchanges. They were more like fix-ups or internet dating.
I once answered an ad seeking a travel writer. At the time I was writing a travel column for Time.com, so the job seemed like a perfect fit. Except that not only was this writer supposed to write, he or she was also going to be filmed while doing so. The money was good, I had nothing to lose, so I sent in my resume. No sooner had I hit “send” than my phone rang.
It was the casting agent. She loved my resume, but she wondered if I was comfortable in front of a camera. I’m not. I’d sooner sit through a root canal. I actually actively hate being on TV (been there, done that), but because I needed the money, I lied and said I was great on film and had always wanted an on-air career. We set up an audition for the following day. That’s when the panic set in.
Like most freelance writers, I’m used to working at home by myself. My “career wardrobe” consists of jeans (if I’m feeling fancy) or yoga pants and a T-shirt. Bra optional. My roots usually need a dye job, my eyebrow upkeep is seriously relaxed, and my cosmetics collection is so full of unused glitter-based products that you’d swear it belonged to a fourteen-year-old girl.
Yes, I have interview outfits (okay, an outfit), but that was out of the question; the casting agent had told me to avoid wearing black. Then there was that much rumored camera-adding-ten-pounds phenomenon. I knew there was absolutely no way I was going to lose 30 pounds overnight, so I dug out a pricey Spanx “foundation garment” I’d bought but hadn’t worn yet. It would prove to be my undoing.
The morning of the audition, I felt even worse. Not only was I nervous, which made me gassy, but I knew it wasn’t going to end well. Much like the time I forced myself to go out with the Ayn-Rand-spouting stockbroker just to prove to myself that I wasn’t addicted to jobless musicians and artists. Nevertheless, I wrestled myself into the Spanx and dug a colorful shirt out of the hamper. I masking-taped away most of the cat hair and even ran an iron across it. I smeared on some makeup and a little lipstick. I can’t say I was particularly comfortable or thrilled with how I looked, but on the other hand I didn’t feel as if wanted to kill myself.
Then it was my bladder’s turn to act up, so I headed to the bathroom. If you’ve ever worn a Spanx, you know that they have an opening for just such times. I’m not nearly coordinated enough to accomplish such a feat, and I didn’t want any my chance at superstardom marred by the fact that I smelled like the subway. Off came all my clothing and half my makeup. Bonus: I felt the tingling of a cold sore beginning to emerge.
At the audition, they took a Polaroid and sat me down in front of some giant lights and a camera. My stomach gurgled loudly as I struggled to keep everything together. What came next was the closest I’ve ever come to a fugue state. I watched as a procession of moronic, nonsensical words worked their way through my lips, and out into the world. I was powerless to stop my mouth from moving. There were no brakes on this particular crazy train. A sampling:
Interviewer: “What to you personally embodies the American Spirit?”
Me: “It’s not fair that female writers have to be pretty and perky — we should just be allowed to stay home and not wear makeup. Christopher Hitchens doesn’t have to be cute — nobody cares that he’s a fat gasbag.”
Interviewer: [Silence, confused/horrified expression.]
Sure, I didn’t actually want the job, but I didn’t want the casting person to think I was mentally ill, either. This was turning into an epic disaster, much like my stockbroker date, during which I bit my lip throughout his defense of Atlas Shrugged and did my best to ignore his hairy hand on my knee.
What I learned from that job interview — and that date — is that although we all have to do things in life we don’t want to, neither work nor love should be forced. You shouldn’t ignore what your gut is telling you, nor should you try to be something you’re not. And perhaps most important of all, it’s better to let your muffin top run free than to try to stuff that thing into a Spanx.
