The most comfortable feeling in the world is when you accept a day-long job interview at a place out-of-state.
You fly in the night before, are wined and dined by your potential supervisor, and dropped off at a swank-ass hotel. And then the next morning, she meets you for breakfast at said swank-ass hotel. But before that, you take approximately six hours getting ready because you’ve already messed up a couple job interviews before this one (at least, you think you must have because – duh- you’re still going on interviews) and you are determined that this is going to be THE ONE.
So you do something you never do: you wear pantyhose.
Oh, and also makeup.
And straighten your hair.
Okay, so three things you never do.
You’re feeling like you’ve got this shit on lockdown, son, with your suit and heels and combed hair and brushed teeth. And, come to think about it, you owe at least some of that confidence to the ‘hose. Your shockingly-white Irish skin has the potential to frighten and blind those who gaze upon it for too long. But beneath a layer of nylon, you suddenly become Christie-fucking-Brinkley prancing on a goddamn beach in Antigua.
Wait, did I say nylon? Because I meant the Devil’s fabric.
Lured into a false sense of confidence, you sit through a series of 78,039 interviews with 120,393 people. Then you are taken on an extensive tour of the place.
Which includes a lot of walking around.
You are smart: you packed flats and blister-block and Band-Aids for this part of the adventure (damn right, I did! says the uber-confident go-getter inside you). You even anticipated the 900-degree temperatures and soul-crushing humidity: I have extra deodorant and body spray and even extra makeup for touch-ups LIKE A GODDAMN BOSS you are saying.
You did not, however, realize that it rained recently and the entire out-of-doors was one giant festering pool of mosquito-breeding standing water. Also, your personal body chemistry is, essentially, mosquito crack.
The tour is at the end of the day, and your interview-anxiety prevents you from noticing much discomfort until you arrive back at your hotel.
Then, like a ton of bricks, it hits you and you must take off the nylons oh my God oh my God oh my God what is going on?! Dear Sweet Lord what has happened to my legs?
You remove the Devil’s Fabric from your person, only to discover that your legs from about mid-thigh down are COVERED in mosquito bites.
THIS IS NOT AN EXAGGERATION.
And not only are they covered, but they are swollen and itchy and… black and blue? As near as you can figure, the tourniquet effect of the ‘hose has somehow compressed each bite so that and caused actual bruising. Like – seriously? What the fuck?
So you hobble down to the little convenience “store” in the lobby of the hotel and feebly ask for some fucking Benadryl, wanting nothing more than to dull the pain. And you shuffle back up to your room and lay absolutely still on the bed, watching cable television and praying to Jesus that if I’m going to die of gangrene at least let me get this stupid job first.
And by the morning your legs are yellow and green and still swollen and still itchy and you have a flight to catch but, actually, it doesn’t matter because you miss your connecting flight and end up having to spend the night in Atlanta without your suitcase so you spend one more night laying in a hotel bed praying for death to come quickly.
* * *
You get the fucking job.
Like a boss.
A crippled, swole-up boss.