Hello again, it’s been a while. I haven’t been inspired to write or share on this blog over summer break, until now. I had an interview last week and the inspiration to write hit me in the middle of the interview. I didn’t feel like I could convey what I wanted through poetry so I decided to write a micro memoir. I couldn’t find a strict definition of micro memoir, some said 100 words, some said 750. As I have learned more about different kinds of stories that limit a writer to a specific word count, I have realized how much I dislike needing to count words and adjust sentences based solely on a number. So here is my 854 word count, micro/mini memoir. A moment in time, a glimpse of a short event in my life. Thanks for reading.

Interview Day

Feel the sweat rolling down the center of your back, trickling like a leaky faucet. How does that sensation happen when you are fully clothed? Wearing a shirt that you could barely get on, but fit perfectly two months ago. Scratchy black pants with very little give, saved for days like this. It’s not easy finding interview pants with short enough legs and a wide enough waist.

“Oh, could you repeat the question please?” You ask the interviewer. You didn’t hear the question fully because you were mesmerized at the sensation of the dripping down your spine. You were too busy wondering why all of a sudden you became so sweaty. This wasn’t even the first question.

“What does diversity mean to you?” The interviewer asks again, eyebrows raised, eyes fixated on you.

The gibberish that comes out of your mouth is accompanied by more sweat that is beading on your cheeks and temples. You feel like a cartoon character who just finished chewing up the hottest of hot peppers and is trying very hard not to explode.

Are you full body sweating because of the question?

Or, is it because you walked across campus, circling the building looking for the office in 95 degree heat in synthetic fabrics and matronly shoes and it’s just now hitting you?

Maybe it’s because you had lost a significant amount of weight but recently gained half of it back and now your mind and body are struggling, sensing the change and suffering inside the extra insulation that is dragging you down and overheating you.

Maybe it’s perimenopause.

Can the interviewers (there are three of them staring you down) sense your overpowering body heat radiating from your core? You know for a fact the chair you are sitting on is glowing red-hot.

Why did one question trip you up? You had already completed the 10 minute presentation required for the interview. You stood in front of them confidently. Proving you could clearly communicate information. You proved you could make a Power Point presentation. You proved that you could teach information from that department that you, yourself, had only a couple of days to learn. Your voice projected over them. Your eyes contacted. You barely looked at the notes you held in your hand.

After answering the diversity question but feeling like you didn’t really answer it, more questions came and went. Some were easier to answer, however, some made you feel like you actually didn’t prepare for this interview at all. The sweat seemed to coincide with the questions that you answered with “ums,” and “uhhhhs,” while your eyes scanned the whole room searching for the right answer – any answer.

Why were there so many questions? Why so much body heat?

Maybe you were sweating because this is the first interview in a long time where you felt desperate to get the job. You need more hours, you need more money for your family.

The frustration of being middle aged and only being qualified for entry level positions feels like wading through thick mud. Competing for a part time position alongside a younger majority feels like you were dropped into the wrong epoch of time.

“Have you done a lot of interviews already?” You ask them, taking this shift in the meeting to readjust in your chair to allow for some much needed airflow to your back.

With heavy sighs, a rolling stretch of their necks, chairs creaking, and a couple of chuckles, they all reply with a low, dejected, “Yes. So many.”

You ask them more questions about hours and you tell them exactly why you want this job without them prompting for that information. You are beginning to feel like maybe you are overqualified for this one and worry that is why they won’t hire you.

Overqualified, even though you couldn’t tell them clearly what diversity means to you.

They are done asking questions. You are done asking questions. Everyone says thank yous and goodbyes. As you stand up and walk out the door you realize just how full body sweated out you are. The 95 degree breeze feels refreshing.

Feeling your skin adjusting, calming down. Your core temperature is lowering.

As soon as you drive away you know your husband is on his way home from work so you give him a call. You are comforted by his voice, and the last of the full body dampness is drying up in the ac tornado inside the car. You feel the tether to him, both of your paths are headed home. You tell him about the question that seemed to trigger the hot flash. You ask him to answer the question for himself. What would he say? He fumbled a bit and that made you feel so much better.

After discussing the question with him for a minute or two, he defiantly exclaimed:

“You are married to a white man. We had children. You physically created diversity with your own body.”

You will know by the end of the week if you got the job.