Column: Why sexy people nail job interviews
by Shannan Scarselletta | Cornell Daily Sun (Cornell University)
Issue date: 10/29/08 Section: Opinion
(U-WIRE) — Nothing makes me feel more like a failed sexual predator than the interview process. I first discover this cute little business on Careernet, the Match.com of the desperate and jobless. Her description catches my eye with words like "exciting," "experienced" and "willing to take any major" (you saucy minx, I know what that means). After exchanging a couple emails explicitly describing how my past experience has prepared me to fulfill her every need and each secret desire, she coyly holds off for a few days.
Do I call her? Did she forget about me? Am I not good enough? Once I begin to convince myself I never needed her in the first place, the cheeky dame offers to meet me somewhere —somewhere private.
Like a pick-up artist readying to drop some of his target lady's favorite movie quotes or band names, I prepare for our little rendezvous with late nights of internet stalking. As she is intriguingly without-Facebook, I am reduced to Googling her name, discovering that she has an intricate website complete with pictures and graphic descriptions of what she expects in an employee. I find out I need to be a passionate leader, not too forceful but not soft-spoken, ready to take on any challenge and have at least one course in finance under my belt—she's got a thing for numbers.
The morning of the big day, I strap myself into my flyest respiration-restricting skirt and a black pair of three-inch heels, because six feet of woman clearly isn't intimidating enough. I spend hours on my physical appearance, because stacking five layers of concealer under my eyes will clearly help stack five digits of dollars in my bank account.
As she leads me down the winding hallway, my palms sweat, my tongue dries and my mind races with the usual insecurities: Am I what she expected? Can she tell I really didn't spend last summer breast-feeding orphans in San Jose? Dear God, I think I gleeked on her hand when I introduced myself.
Do I call her? Did she forget about me? Am I not good enough? Once I begin to convince myself I never needed her in the first place, the cheeky dame offers to meet me somewhere —somewhere private.
Like a pick-up artist readying to drop some of his target lady's favorite movie quotes or band names, I prepare for our little rendezvous with late nights of internet stalking. As she is intriguingly without-Facebook, I am reduced to Googling her name, discovering that she has an intricate website complete with pictures and graphic descriptions of what she expects in an employee. I find out I need to be a passionate leader, not too forceful but not soft-spoken, ready to take on any challenge and have at least one course in finance under my belt—she's got a thing for numbers.
The morning of the big day, I strap myself into my flyest respiration-restricting skirt and a black pair of three-inch heels, because six feet of woman clearly isn't intimidating enough. I spend hours on my physical appearance, because stacking five layers of concealer under my eyes will clearly help stack five digits of dollars in my bank account.
As she leads me down the winding hallway, my palms sweat, my tongue dries and my mind races with the usual insecurities: Am I what she expected? Can she tell I really didn't spend last summer breast-feeding orphans in San Jose? Dear God, I think I gleeked on her hand when I introduced myself.
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