I had an interview for a job this morning, my first for a while. I don’t want to go into details, since I’d rather keep employment specifics out of the weblog from now on; let’s just say that the line of work is right up my alley (I hesitate to use the phrase ‘dream job’, since that’s a long ways off yet), and my potential employer is both a company with a lot of history (it’s mentioned at least once in Joyce’s Ulysses) and one that I would love to work with. I said _love_.
The interview went well, I think. It wasn’t very formal, and most of it was spent going over the specifics of the work involved, the majority of which was familiar to me from my previous experience. I think they just want to get a feel for the applicants: to see the face behind the CV, that sort of thing; it was like that when I applied for the _large music store_ back in the day. Yet I’m never quite sure about these things, so I’m trying not to get too worked up about it.
I am anxious, though. I was anxious beforehand — I barely slept last night — and I’m anxious now, waiting for the phone call tomorrow morning that will tell me I’ve gotten the job. I’m still shocked that I was called for an interview in the first place, to be perfectly honest, so it’s no wonder I’m nervous.
And if I don’t get that phone call, you ask? Well, hopefully I impressed them enough today to secure a place in the call-back pile (it’s happened to me before).
But you know what? Even though I’m trying to be balanced and cool and calm and collected about it, and having my details kept in their records is better than nothing, that doesn’t change the fact that I really, _really_ want this job right now, and I’ll be gutted if I don’t get it. I said _gutted_.
*Update:* No phone call, so it looks like I didn’t get it. I was too needy, wasn’t I?