I was applying for a job with the Roads Department, they needed a writer for writerly things. I actually have experience working on a road crew (a very random summer job - I was in The Union!, such a Woman of the People). So I’m trying to mention it in the cover letter, An opportunity I had once upon a summer of my misty yesteryears to labor amongst the masses on a road crew most fair, is how I understood from my friend and cover letter reviewer, P, that I had written about the experience. I was both indignant and confused.
“How else am I supposed to say it?”
“Just say I spent a summer in college working on a road crew. It rocked,” he said. “Can’t you just be cool?”
“Not really, no.” Is how I wish I responded. You know, be a cool girl admitting she is not cool but showing that she actually is cool by admitting she isn’t cool.
However.
Looking back, I must confess my actual reply was more along the lines of me shrieking “Alas, for no! I cannot!” and flinging myself upon the cardboard-and-wood-glue loveseat that is only temporarily standing in for the chaise lounge I am meant to own. I had a fit of vapors then revived myself with a stiff cup of tea.
I am many things, but cool is not one of them. I’m not hip, dope, or lit; I am most certainly off fleek. It’s just not in me.
To wit, boho outfits look ridiculous on me. There’s a certain amount of relaxation and slouch required for caftans and peasant blouses that I cannot manage. I look like a distressed goose, my disembodied head and neck erupting from piles of draped fabric. I had a brief career as a student DJ in college and tried hard to fit in with all the proto-hipsters and failed utterly. With my earnestness, new clothes (thrifted stuff has cooties), and genuine (if secret) love of Britney Spears, they knew I wasn’t one of them. I’m a cross between a nervous Victorian lady and a floppy puppy. I use far too many words to get my point across and will continue to eat popcorn until someone forcibly takes the bucket away from me. (The latter is hyperbole and has certainly not happened.)
But age, supposedly, brings wisdom. Or better masking techniques. While I like to think that I manage to at least fool some people some of the time that I will not harsh any buzzes, there are certain situations where all bets are off.
Such as applying for jobs.
In addition to an utter lack of chill, I seem to also lack the ability to think professionally. Solutions, paradigms, driving engagement - these are words, just empty words, to me. I’m a third grader applying them haphazardly to a report on China covered in glitter and panda stickers and then submitting it, jam-covered, to HR. I swear I’m great in person, but trying to get myself in the mindset of businessy-business in order to write a letter or a resume or anything that makes it sound like I’m capable of doing anything that earns money is, like, really hard. Which is crazy because I’m super Type A - an improv teacher once told me that I didn’t need to “attack the scenes so hard.” I’ve been thinking about that piece of feedback for years - what was I supposed to do, sneak up on the scenes?
The advice I’ve received is “just be yourself” which always prompts an existential crisis and reminds me of that time I was trying to fix myself and Pema Chödrön told me I was perfect the way I am and I swear to God, that bitch and Fred Rogers are in league to make me love and accept myself which no one has any time for.
Now what?
“Do or do not. There is no try,” said Yoda.
Tightening my corset, I flop back down at my laptop, dip my quill in the ink pot, and do again. Greetings and Salutations Most Respected Sirs and Mesdames of the Company of Amazon, May this letter find you in good health and better spirits. I have heard upon the wings of doves and also indeed.com that a fine Program Manager you seeketh. Perchance we may be most well-suited to each other, to solute the paradigms of user engagement synergies...
“How else am I supposed to say it?”
“Just say I spent a summer in college working on a road crew. It rocked,” he said. “Can’t you just be cool?”
“Not really, no.” Is how I wish I responded. You know, be a cool girl admitting she is not cool but showing that she actually is cool by admitting she isn’t cool.
However.
Looking back, I must confess my actual reply was more along the lines of me shrieking “Alas, for no! I cannot!” and flinging myself upon the cardboard-and-wood-glue loveseat that is only temporarily standing in for the chaise lounge I am meant to own. I had a fit of vapors then revived myself with a stiff cup of tea.
I am many things, but cool is not one of them. I’m not hip, dope, or lit; I am most certainly off fleek. It’s just not in me.
To wit, boho outfits look ridiculous on me. There’s a certain amount of relaxation and slouch required for caftans and peasant blouses that I cannot manage. I look like a distressed goose, my disembodied head and neck erupting from piles of draped fabric. I had a brief career as a student DJ in college and tried hard to fit in with all the proto-hipsters and failed utterly. With my earnestness, new clothes (thrifted stuff has cooties), and genuine (if secret) love of Britney Spears, they knew I wasn’t one of them. I’m a cross between a nervous Victorian lady and a floppy puppy. I use far too many words to get my point across and will continue to eat popcorn until someone forcibly takes the bucket away from me. (The latter is hyperbole and has certainly not happened.)
But age, supposedly, brings wisdom. Or better masking techniques. While I like to think that I manage to at least fool some people some of the time that I will not harsh any buzzes, there are certain situations where all bets are off.
Such as applying for jobs.
In addition to an utter lack of chill, I seem to also lack the ability to think professionally. Solutions, paradigms, driving engagement - these are words, just empty words, to me. I’m a third grader applying them haphazardly to a report on China covered in glitter and panda stickers and then submitting it, jam-covered, to HR. I swear I’m great in person, but trying to get myself in the mindset of businessy-business in order to write a letter or a resume or anything that makes it sound like I’m capable of doing anything that earns money is, like, really hard. Which is crazy because I’m super Type A - an improv teacher once told me that I didn’t need to “attack the scenes so hard.” I’ve been thinking about that piece of feedback for years - what was I supposed to do, sneak up on the scenes?
The advice I’ve received is “just be yourself” which always prompts an existential crisis and reminds me of that time I was trying to fix myself and Pema Chödrön told me I was perfect the way I am and I swear to God, that bitch and Fred Rogers are in league to make me love and accept myself which no one has any time for.
Now what?
“Do or do not. There is no try,” said Yoda.
Tightening my corset, I flop back down at my laptop, dip my quill in the ink pot, and do again. Greetings and Salutations Most Respected Sirs and Mesdames of the Company of Amazon, May this letter find you in good health and better spirits. I have heard upon the wings of doves and also indeed.com that a fine Program Manager you seeketh. Perchance we may be most well-suited to each other, to solute the paradigms of user engagement synergies...
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