This week I got wind of the perfect job and sent in my resume. My anticipation (or maybe my desperation) slows time to a sluggish pace, giving me way too much space to second-guess myself.
I should add every minute job and favor I do to my resume, so they know I’m not a slacker.
I shouldn’t have said I’m in school. They’ll think I’m an immature 20-something. They’ll assume I give school priority over my job.
They figured out my age. I’m too old.
They already gave the job to someone else.
The font on my resume was wrong.
They saw my ugly Facebook photos. They don’t like the cut of my jib, the mad gleam in my eye.
I wish I could be brutally honest on my resume rather than curt and professional. Instead of, say, “extensive customer service experience,” I’m dying to say, “I am the customer service QUEEN! Seriously, I’m super nice. And my hair always smells good.”
Instead of hoping that a potential employer makes the connection between my experience and their needs, why can’t I just spell it out? “I spent 11 years as a 911 operator helping angry, scared, hurt, confused, drunk, and/or crazy people through all manner of crises . Your customers would be a refreshing change.”
They want someone with good writing skills, so I point out that I’m an English major and include my experience editing student publications at school. Boring! How about I point out that I’m a recovering Grammar Nazi? That’s got to hold some weight.
I had a bit of a false hope recently. About a year ago, the leadership at my old job changed. The new chief is the guy that didn’t want to fire me but had to. Since the big change, a good friend/ former coworker has been trying to convince me to ask for my job back. I have a million reasons for not doing it, but it boils down to…how? How do I ask the people who kicked me out so convolutedly to let me back in?
[Believe it or not, “convolutedly” is a real word that I didn’t make up.]
Several weeks ago, this friend emailed me and asked for an update on my sad little life. I decided to be honest, even though the answer wasn’t good. I didn’t get a response. Oops, I thought, overshare. But she emailed me back recently saying she had been making inquiries, and found out that other people had been making them, too, regarding my possible return. The feedback was positive. “We are hurting for dispatchers,” she said, “and if you’re hurting for a job I think it’s worth a shot.”
I was still skeptical, but screw it, I’d do it. I am indeed hurting for a job and maybe the time has come to drop my pride a little. Besides, I owe her for putting in the effort on my behalf. So I shot off a friendly email to my old director, whom I haven’t spoken to in about a year and a half. I thought it best to work up to the matter at hand, rather than jump right into it.
I got one short response. Friendly, yes, but solitary. So much for working up to it.
My friend started enlisting more help, and I started making my own inquiries. I was excited. To have my job back would be phenomenal! We could have lives again! We would have everything we need again. We could have things we don’t need, too, things that merely make us happy. We could see movies again, and take mini road trips, and buy birthday presents. Andrew could build his TARDIS. Jess could have clothes that fit (since she lost nearly 60 lbs.) I wouldn’t feel like most of the civilized world was out of my reach anymore.
I decided if I was going to lead this budding movement, I’d need more reassurance. I emailed the department’s HR person and, bush-beating be damned, asked if it was possible, if I should even bother pursuing this.
According to her inquiries: no. Damn.
Well, so life goes on. I keep putting one foot in front of the other and move forward because that’s all I can do.
My resume is still floating around the universe, I’m still super nice, and my hair still smells great. So all is not lost.