Limbo

No, this isn't a blog entry about shimmying under a pole. Instead, it's a blog entry about misery. I don't function well in limbo. Not well at all. Here's the back story: Last week, I did my first campus visit - the second round of hazing for academic positions. The interview was for a full-time teaching position at the state school where I adjuncted last spring. It was a full and exhausting day, made easier by the fact that I already knew someone on the search committee, everyone else was very nice and personable, and I'd managed to put together a cute outfit. I got through my teaching demonstration without falling down, insulting a student, or losing my voice (all major accomplishments, considering the state I was in - and I don't mean Georgia). I got positive feedback from the search committee and felt good as I drove away.

Two days later, I completed the grand tour by visiting the satellite campus close to my house. The fellow who I knew best showed me around and the interviews seemed to go well. As we parted ways, the fellow said, "You should be hearing soon, one way or the other."

I expected to hear this week. It's now 4:55PM on Friday, so I'm thinking that they're not going to call today. The "one way or the other" continues to ring in my ears and I've just about convinced myself that I somehow, someway, did or said something stupid and lost my chance at this job. I'm hoping the delay is related to some snag in the bureaucratic administrative process. I'm hoping the delay is not related to the fact that they are too chicken-sh** to call or email, so they're sending a snail mail letter to tell me that they found someone better. That would send me right over the edge.

All is not lost. If this doesn't work out, chances are very good that I can return for another year at Big City University. But, man, to be in a permanent position that allows me to stay put right where I want to be...

I don't do well in limbo. Even when I have lots of papers and quizzes to keep me company. I can manage about 5 minutes of not thinking about whether they've emailed, or whether the phone will ring. I can manage about 3 minutes without raging self-doubt and second-guessing. I can manage about 2 minutes without wanting to throw my phone through the wall.

Maybe Monday...

Interview Fashion

On Thursday, I'll ring in the New Year by flying to the Big Apple for the Annual Historians' Hootenanny. I often call it by its other name, but that name isn't suitable for mixed company, so I won't use it here. Let's just say it begins with "cluster." I wasn't planning to gather this year, but two schools took a shine to my application materials and want to meet me face-to-face - which means I need to look presentable. No conference call in my pajamas. Rats.

After I'd sufficiently recovered from the holidays, I scoured my closet for appropriate interview attire. Last year, I bought a very serviceable black dress (I learned the concept of "serviceable" from my grandmother. I think it means "something you can wear everyday until you're buried in it." Anyway, this black dress was great - a basic sheath. It fit like a glove.

That was then - when I was stressed out about dissertations, teaching, and any number of other things. That was then - when I was working out regularly. That was then - when I wasn't eating a steady diet of pasta and chocolate. That was then - before I turned 40. This is now. Now, the perfect black dress fits like sausage casing.

Now, I need a new interview outfit. I had a couple of options already in my closet. There was the ultra-boring wool pants, black jacket, blue blouse ensemble. No, my legs aren't that short. After some consideration, I decided that even on my most enthusiastic, bubbly days, I still wouldn't be able to cheer up this outfit. I would be, "That girl in the Confederate uniform," when the interviewers returned home and reflected on their interviews. I'm proud to be southern, but I didn't want to be THAT southern. So, back to the closet.

I found my brown knit dress. It's cute and fits well, successfully camouflaging my new "curves" and cleverly stretching to make room for things that don't fit in the sheath anymore. It's much more attractive on me than it appears on this hanger. So, I settled on the dress. Now, I just needed shoes and a jacket. How hard could that be?

Determined to meet with success, my friend and I mounted our trusty steeds and headed into the shopping wilderness. A jacket and a pair of boots were our quarry. We crawled through the underbrush, leaving no stone unturned. We looked in several forests, but other small-footed and petite hunters had already been through, taking the best trophies and leaving little behind. Undaunted, we pushed on.

Finally, we spotted our quarry, cleverly concealing itself among much cheaper items on the sales rack. Before long, I had my jacket. It's more of a sweater/jacket, but it was on sale and it would match the dress. We tagged it, bagged it, and moved on. The boots proved to be more elusive, but at last, we met with success. Leather boots, dark brown, low heel, on sale - perfect. Tagged 'em, bagged 'em, brought 'em home. Decided to let the purchases ride in the vehicle, rather than tying them to the outside.

When I got home, I put the entire ensemble together. The dress and sweater/jacket looked a bit "Maria Von Trapp" in "The Sound of Music," but don't care. I'd rather be Maria than Johnny Reb. I tried the boots, and alas, they didn't work. They were too casual, too bulky, just wrong. Rats.

So, I went to my local mall and bought a different pair of brown boots. They're not ideal, but they're an improvement and they were cheaper.

I'll return the other boots and call it quits. For a brief moment this afternoon, I thought about buying an interview suit. Then I thought, "It's not like I'm applying for a job in high finance. If I can achieve 'frumpy chic,' I should be OK. At least I'll look better than all those youngsters in their ill-fitting, conservative, boring, dull suits. They'll all look like they robbed their parents' closets and I'll look somewhat stylish." That's my story and I'm sticking to it - unless I get really stressed out about this and go shopping for a suit.