To Be Prepared

I had a job interview this past Tuesday.

It went well.

Rewind to several hours earlier. My turkey and swiss sandwich from 7 Eleven's refrigerated deli section wasn't tasting as fresh as it looked before I forked over coin to appease my grumbling belly. Better to consume this 4-layered mediocrity now than to suffer embarrassingly loud stomach growls during the interview. It's dry. Good thing I've got this overpriced-for-as-long-as-I-can-remember Starbucks mocha frappuccino drink to wash it down, then. *plop* ← That's the sound of the bottlecap absolving pressure as I twist it counterclockwise. This'll surely keep me pepped and lively during the meeting, I think to myself as I guzzle down half the blend.

Fast-forward 12 seconds. "F#CK!" I glance at my newish analog wristwatch—mint, unweathered, chocolate brown leather bands surrounding a sleek dial with a fascia not unlike a seafarer's compass—while simultaneously fumbling for a nonexistent Kleenex tissue and realize I've only got 10 minutes before the human resources & recruitment manager dissects me like a frog. That leaves me with 5 minutes to do something about my mocha-speckled tie. At this point, the cartoon characters from The Land Before Time animated films would be jealous of my dinosaur skin-patterned neckwear. And Ruby the oviraptor was patterned. This is my nice, shiny blue tie too. The one that's supposed to grab attention better than a hurdler in the winter Olympics. I've got it all planned, you see? Wear the understated, UPS-palette brown dress shirt and waistcoat with khakis combo PAIRED with the creative flair of a blue necktie that pops and I've sold myself to the bidder as one balanced sunnuva bloke.

Well, there goes my pop.

Good thing I brought my bag of extra neckties for just such an occasion. None of my 4 backup ties have the shiny gusto of the blue silk one (R.I.P.), but all of them are up to the task of filling in the big shoes. I did this once. City finals, state qualifying. 400 blurry, deputized clay meters. Pas de problème. I strip the dead fabric from my collar and replace it with a Shipley & Halmos alternative. Crisis—however anticipatory—averted.

Fast-forward one hour & thirty minutes. "This isn't timed so take as long as you want. Come see me outside when you're done," says the clichécretary, a brilliantly convenient amalgamation of Pam from The Office and the secretary from my old orthodontist's office. My ass this isn't timed. As soon as she rounds the cubicle corner I dive into the computer test, designed to make sure its victim is semi proficient with pre-Y2K Microsoft Excel. Hmm, a.k.a. Dinosaur Excel? Again, Ruby the oviraptor would be envious. Unfortunately for me, I reviewed a version of Excel last night that was a good 10 years its upgrade. I might as well have studied a map of the USA.

This is ridiculous, I'm thinking to myself. I know Excel. I used it endlessly in college to make lab report spreadsheets and Powerpoint table inserts. I even took a class dedicated solely to learning Dinosaur Excel. So why aren't my column formulas working?! The quotient script I practiced to perfection last night is bringing up error codes this morning... I don't understand. I'm sitting here, staring blankly at the computer screen (which isn't flat, by the way; a paleontologist would chisel excess sediment with his masonry hammer to unearth such a relic) hoping that this division formula will just magically work itself out. Sitting, staring, for what seems like an eternity. It's probably closer to 10 minutes. I'm fed up, so I leave the computer and walk outside to the lobby to ask the clichécretary for assistance. I know she's not allowed to help, but at least maybe she can give me some kind of small clue as to what I'm doing wrong...

"Whoa whoa whoa, you're doing something way too complex here. Trust me, it's a lot simpler than you think," she mitigates. As she returns to her front desk, it hits me. Think SIMPLE. A few clicks and edits later, I'm running smoother than an engine block with newly changed oil. Time to sign, seal and deliver. A short while after I submit it, I'm informed of my test results by the HR manager herself: "You did very well."

As I'm driving home through downtown L.A., my new windshield wipers streaking cleanly across the glass pane in front of me, I'm smiling at the respect I've gained for the simple solution. The lesson to be derived from this jigsaw morning? Be prepared. Whether it's a collection of extra backup ties in your backseat in case you accidentally spill coffee on your primary one or reacquainting yourself with an ancient computer software, always be ready for what's ahead... even if it means thinking basic.

Sometimes the road most taken is the way you want to go.