Beads of Preparation

If you haven't heard how my experience went at the educational exposition yet, hear it now: it went well. Much to my surprise I did not blank out or dry-heave when asked questions. In actuality I thought I did quite well in articulating my answers (ed note: one interviewer actually complimented me and said that I was "articulate", but now that I think about it, she might have said "arctic you'll it"... hmmm) and held myself with dignity and honesty. However, there was one thing that I discovered that I still need to work on: the seat swivel. When put on the spot, I sweat like a crazy person. My hands sweat, my armpits sweat, my sweat glands sweat. Fortunately most of these problems can be remedied. I put kleenex in my pockets to soak up my palms and I'm becoming more and more skilled in the art of the hidden pant-swipe just before shaking hands. Sweaty armpits are easily hidden with a thick undershirt and a restraint from waving my arms in the air (like I just don't care). But there is one sign of sweaty weakness that I just can't hide as well. Plastic and vinyl seats are the bane of my existence as there are some places one just can't coat with layers of antiperspirant. I call it "the Black T of Degradation", and it can only be cured with a careful swivel in the seat as one stands up from a plastic or vinyl chair. Of course, one does not think of swivelling in one's seat when two important interviewers simultaneously stand up to give departing hand shakes. And lo there it was in the corner of my eye, the Black T, staring up at everyone in the room shrieking "this man sweats too much and therefore would be a liability in the classroom!!" The interviewers and I kept on having friendly banter as I gathered my belongings and walked to the door, but the Black T still sat there on the seat... resisting evaporation. I wanted to just grab the chair and take it with me outside into the hallway or throw it out of a nearby window; anything to keep them from seeing it. So we all pretended that it wasn't there. But that proved to be like resisting a glance at an unibrow or an unfortunately located mole, it can't be done. So as I glanced at the mark giving it a quick disapproving glare, the others stared at it in disbelief. I quickly scuttled out the door when one interviewer covered her mouth to hide a shrill scream, the other just stood there with his mouth wide open in shock and bewilderment, as though he came across horrendous traffic accident involving a shipment of balloon-monkeys (heading to the local zoo) and a truck overloaded with pointy-ended scissors (for adult use only).

Like I said, the interviews went well.