Sometimes I wonder if they threw my confidence out with the placenta. Or even a little bit each time. Like the midwives and obstetrician all get together as they’re stitching whatever part of my body back together, and they say “Ooh, let’s take away her ability to make new friends!” or “Why don’t we get rid of those interview skills?” They rub their hands together and with a little tug and a toss over the shoulder it’s gone for good. Bye-bye job interviews, new friends, and even the ability to look your son’s school teacher in the eye when she’s complimenting you on being a super mum as you “have three children, including a BABY and you still manage to help with fundraising and attend open classrooms at the school”.
As I ponder all of these things, I sit here FREAKING OUT. You see, I had this silly idea that I could apply for a scholarship a few months ago. I fit the criteria, so why not give it a shot? I set a reminder in my calendar to print off the application form in February, I got some amazing references, one which literally brought a tear to my eye, and I submitted everything before the deadline. It’s not a huge monetary figure, but when one is not working, they do not turn down free money, right?
So now here I sit, a few hours after receiving the phone call. I have been selected for an INTERVIEW. At first I thought it was great, but then I couldn’t shake the weird nervous feeling. I used to look forward to interviews. I was one of those sick sadistic people who got off on being asked difficult questions. Or maybe I was just too far into myself back then to realise that interviews were the work of the devil. I used to have a heap of clever answers all ready to go in my head, and I even coached hubby through some interviews too, jealous that I couldn’t sit them in his place. I honestly thrived in those situations and was a natural.
But now I’m DYING. I can’t talk myself up anymore. I stutter. I go into a fumbling mess. I try to talk, and when nothing comes out in the right order, I try to make up for it with my hands. They wave around in front of my face, totally out of my control. My hands are like two flapping fish … very much out of water. I am my hands, that fish – gasping for air. Do you think they’ll give it back to me if I write to the hospital and bribe them? Why is it that only a year out of the workforce can send someone back so far? If anyone has any tips (or vodka, or maybe even duct tape for my hands?) I’d be grateful.