Page 180 of Rock Bottom Girl

Thad appeared and introduced himself. He wore skinny jeans and a hoodie and large blue-framed glasses. The rest of the team was a collection of hipsters, slobs, and people too young and optimistic to know that a start-up this cool was destined for some serious growing pains.

Numbly I answered the standard interview questions in their glassed-in conference room. The table was an oversized surfboard. The art on the walls was colorful and confusing. Someone rolled past the door on a skateboard.

It was exactly the kind of place I would have been looking for prior to my stint as a Barn Owl.

Thad explained the work schedule (“Come and go as you please; just get your work done”), the role (a stepping stone to head my own team in a year or two), and the mission statement before launching into the interview questions.

I’d done this often enough that I could almost predict the next question.

What do you see as your top strengths?

My ability to fail over and over again.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

Unemployed and single. History tends to repeat itself.

I wasn’t even nervous. Usually, I was interviewing in a panic. I needed the job. I was desperate for not just gainful employment but a bright future.

This time, though? I couldn’t even rouse myself to care. I hoped it made me seem cool.

They turned me over to a chipper HR assistant who gave me the grand tour. Everything was open work spaces and primary colors. There was an espresso station and a yoga room. They were a start-up that was growing like gangbusters.

It was exactly what I was looking for. I’d be busy. There was room for growth. There were benefits and a casual dress code.

And I couldn’t for the life of me get excited about it.

They took me out for lunch, and I pushed my chicken salad around on my plate. Someone asked me about my coaching experience, and I told them about the girls on the team. Told them about our season, leaving out the devastating end.

After lunch, they showed me my potential office. A glorified cubicle but with a view of the river. They were growing, they assured me. Rapidly. They needed a data mining team in place as soon as possible. And within a year, I could be heading it.

All I could think about was how I had ten to fifteen years of life experience on the team. How would I be a better fit here than my own hometown?

They liked me. I could tell. Like I said, I was practically an interview professional. But did I like them? Did I want to be the team elder? Did I want to spend my working hours explaining what CDs were and who Dan Aykroyd was?

Why did everything I’d always wanted feel so damn wrong?

They promised to call me after the holiday. I shook hands all around, threw in some fist bumps for the knuckle-preferring crowd, and returned to my car in the parking garage.

I got behind the wheel and thumped my forehead against it. What the hell was I doing with my life?

* * *

Me: I had my interview.

Vicky: Oh, you’re emerging from your self-loathing to talk to me again? Goodie.

Me: I deserve that.

Vicky: Stop it. It’s no fun when you act like a kicked puppy.

Me: Arf arf.

Vicky: How did it go? Did they offer you a million dollars and stock options?

Me: I think they’re going to offer me the job.

Vicky: Are you going to take it?