So, as the job prospects dwindled, I felt as if I had no choice when Boss Lady asked me to come back to Brooklyn for another interview. My second interview was with the two other event planners employed by Boss Lady. Karen was a nasally-voiced Brooklynite and the other, Chloe, was a French gal with a heavy lisp. Both were in their early twenties and, like, totally peppered their sentences with, like, totally awesome young-people slang.
There seemed to be a lot concern with the fact that I had just moved to New York. “People move here and realize they can’t hack it,” said Boss Lady. “I just want to make sure you’re staying.”
“Like, totally,” agreed Karen.
“Juth tho you know,” said Chloe, “Living in thith thity ith tho hard thometimeth. You have to be throng. Thith ith not like Thex and the Thity.” I bit the side of my tongue to keep from laughing.
Meanwhile, I was also interviewing with Creative Edge, an illustrious Manhattan event planning company. Because they were a larger company, they seemed much more structured and organized. Their client roster included Versace and Calvin Klein and when I was given a tour of their facility in the West Village, I was impressed with the chic, modern decor. It was like I had stepped into a CB2 catalog. Everything felt so Manhattan and I loved it.
Everything except me, that is. I didn’t really feel very well put together or polished. I only had one interview suit- incidentally, the only suit I owned- an ill-fitted, boxy, black suit I bought at Target for Brenen’s funeral. While looking for a job, I wore it day after day, in New York’s soupy September heat. While waiting to interview in the chic lobby at Creative Edge, a fellow interviewee leaned into my ear and said, “I would have gone with a different tie if I were you.” It was a ruthlessly manipulative and competitive comment, and I wondered if he said it to throw me off my game because he could smell my fear. Was my lack of confidence more obvious than I realized?
I wondered who I was kidding. I questioned whether or not I had what it takes to survive in New York. Maybe Boss Lady was right to have reservations about hiring me. Maybe I couldn’t hack it. Maybe moving to New York was a mistake, I thought. At times, I was overwhelmed by the forceful walls of pedestrians on the overcrowded sidewalks and the seas of tired and sweaty straphangers packed on a stifling hot subway platform. Late at night, I’d lie awake and stare at the glowing lights of the George Washington Bridge, fretting over paying rent and buying groceries and how much it would cost to get my stinky suit dry cleaned. I worried that I was going to disappoint my friends, my family and even Brenen. I felt like Manhattan was about to viciously chew me up and spit me out.
To be Continued.