I am in the middle of applying for a job with our denomination’s district office.  It’s basically like this job only with more hours, a lot  more money, and fewer old lady cheek kisses.  And a better title.  And health insurance.  And a retirement plan.

The pastor here suggested I apply and  suggested I could work this job in the evenings.   The person in charge of hiring is someone whom I’ve known for years and who, inexplicably, thinks I’m “such a sweeeet person.”

I am trying extremely hard not to get too excited or even to imagine myself in this job*.    Instead, I shall try to finish up my week’s work so I can spend my three day weekend playing outside in the sun.

* A recycled essay on why I strive to remain blase, from last December:

Yesterday I found out I’m one of the final six candidates being considered for a job that I sort of want and really need.  Sometime early next week, probably,  I’ll handwash that black pencil skirt crumpled on my closet floor and check my favorite blouse for loose buttons.  I’ll pray I still have black tights without holes and will color over the scuffs on my shoes with a Sharpie.  I’ll shave my legs and do something about my ragged cuticles.  I’ll wear foundation, even though I think foundation is gross, and lipgloss that doesn’t smell like Dr Pepper.   I will carry a serious handbag and rehearse my interview answers in the car.   I will try unsuccessfully to make my hands, which are always as cold as death’s, warm before I shake the interviewer’s hand firmly but not to firmly.

Job prospects these days are a little too much like boys when you’re thirteen.  I picture me and employment holding hands and running together in a field of daisies.  All around us is the sweet music of personal fulfillment and and the warm breezes of financial security.  I am wearing a white dress and my hair is long and shiny and I am on my way to meeting my long term goals.  I am scribbling sweaty hearts on my Trapper Keeper.

Do you like me?  I write on thick resume paper.  Yes or No.  Circle one.   I hand over the paper, and it comes back to me, having been much-folded and passed through many hands. No. There’s a big black circle around the word.   I laugh too loud on my way to drop the crumpled paper in wastebasket to show I don’t care and never wanted that stupid old job anyway.  Then I go sit behind the bleachers and draw in the dirt with my finger and feel sorry for my awkward unloveable self.

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