Living theatrically: How to ace a job interview

My lungs feel like they're about to explode. These are the worst moments I've spent in a faux suede chair, ever. On the other hand, what did I expect? Faux suede isn't exactly made of win. Waiting in a room full of other job hopefuls isn't made of win either, it's made of courage. Yes brain, it's made of courage, this is Sparta, now shut it.

What? Did I just say job and hopeful? Am I actually overcoming the Stockholm Syndrome that binds Fareeda and myself? Why, I think I just did. It's good stuff. I may write a book about how brave I feel as I step into a world where companies feel five interviews for one position are reasonable. Right now though, my lungs are giving way. I can't breathe. This is worse than waiting for a boy to call you. Text you. Follow you on Twitter? I don't get it. I don't get the very modern rules of this modern world, and my etiquette on any given occasion has been falling short of desirable lately.

Maybe.

It's been about a year since I sat in on that meeting with BZ and the Metro crew, and it feels as though nothing has changed, but also everything. I've been out on three blind dates for one, with three blind mice. One of them had actually escaped Karl Lagerfeld's experimental fountain of eternal youth experiments. That is the only reason I believe he thought it was okay to ask me if I watch my weight because women tend to get 'too comfortable' once they settle down. The brutal lab tests. He wasn't a bad sort though, for a blind mouse. Ha ha! Oh this pain when I breathe in...no amount of laughter will make it go away.

A man rushes into the lounge, waving around a piece of paper. "Zai-nab?" he calls, "Is Zai-nab here?" I nod at him and get up. We have only known each other about two seconds and he already can't be bothered to pronounce the simplest name right. It's okay. Sparta.

"I see that you have applied for one of our writing positions," he says, frowning at my CV as if he cannot figure out why there's like, so much stuff on one piece of paper. "But you've studied photography, is that correct?"

If I've learnt one thing in the last few months, it is this: There is a time and place to be a smartass. This isn't one of them. I need to impress this man, with, if nothing, then my ability to hold a sane conversation with a functioning member of society. Another functioning member of society.

"Yes." Short and simple, like the little black dress. It's the best analogy I can come up with on the spot to convince myself of my answer's effectiveness.

"So...why do you want to write and edit, all this publishing-print stuff?" he looks very, very confused. I want to help him find a way out, it's the number one secret to all my successful human interactions. I like helping people. This is exactly why my third blind date, Hammad, found me so riveting he refused to call me after weeks of getting to know each other over our hatred of vampires. I try not to think about it. It was not my shining moment, to paraphrase musician and great mind of our times, Hash.

"I love to write," I tell him, "and I adore editing." My interviewer is all eyebrow of skepticism.

"Yes well. Well, do you have any questions?" he asks.

I want to throw my hands over my face and sob. No, I want to tell him. This is my five thousandth and first interview with you guys, I have no more questions. I want answers. Answers, for the love of Suri Cruise's gold stilettos!

I give up. I curl my mouth and shake my head. I can't speak anymore. He reads me my rights should I win this job. I smile and thank him and tell him it was great meeting him. I walk out, a cramp in my side, my lungs rattling against my ribs. Some people would throw up, I only do that when I'm excited. This was not exciting. I fish out my phone and text Yasmin.