Resume Dropping. . . Bomb Shelters and Alien Habitats

A few days ago, I went resume dropping. Oh the wonders of looking for a job. .

I’m already sick of job hunting. Sick of looking, re-editing my resume, writing new cover letters, having to put in this great effort without ever knowing if it’ll go anywhere. I’m sick of just thinking about it — which is probably why I didn’t want to even write this post.

I feel like I’m getting to the point that, out of desperation, just because I want to stop stressing about this, I’ll accept any job I can.

And it’s so sad. I just started.

Anyway, so on Tuesday, I got up, did my makeup, ate breakfast (I probably should’ve done this before the makeup..), got my  resumes and cover letters printed, stapled, and signed, and dressed in my pencil skirt and heels. I even borrowed a professional black folder and my mom’s classy little purse.My new target is receptionist positions. I’ve been told I have the face and manner of a receptionist. And since it’s an office job, the hours won’t be ridiculous and I’ll be able to hopefully get weekends, at least Sundays, off.

Not much excitement in an office job, though. So I wasn’t too keen on the idea.

It wasn’t until last Friday, that I went to get my eyes checked (you might remember the teeny issue with my glasses), that God spoke to me through my optometrist, a sweet little woman named Dr. To — or “Toe,” I’m not sure.  She asked if I got the day off in school, and I had to politely explain that I’m not in high school (or middle school), even though I look it. So she asked if I’m going to college, and I told her I’m looking for a job.

“Oh have you looked in doctor’s offices, maybe as a receptionist? You could be good at that. You’re very. . . easily approachable.”

Even though she struggled to find the words, I heard them loud and clear. . Yes Lord, fine, I’ll start looking into receptionist jobs. . Furthermore, the receptionist who checked us out and whatnot was super nice and seemed to be having a pleasant time with her job. I looked around at the frame displays along the walls and clean desks and thought, maybe this isn’t such a bad idea.

One thing led to another and Monday I did a Google search of all the Optometrists in the area.

Luckily, when I did go out, my dad drove me. Optometrist offices seem to be the best hidden in the world. Not to mention Google isn’t always right (sorry. I feel like I just heard the heart of a computer nerd crack in the far distance. .).

The first office I went to didn’t say “Optometrist” at all. The address was right. But one side of the building said “Gastro something” and the other was some long medical word. I suddenly felt dumb. Even the buildings sounded smarter than I was. All I had was the optometrists name, so I scanned the name of doctors printed on the glass outside one office, didn’t find it, so I went to the other side of the building. There were no names printed outside, so I opened the tinted glass door and stepped in.

I felt like Snow White in the dark forest, surrounded and being stared at by nothing but glowing and blinking white eyes. The waiting room was full of people. Well, it was more of a hallway than a waiting room. Along each wall were chairs, yet people were still standing from lack of space. Not one person was talking. They were all watching me, maybe for lack of entertainment or maybe because my overly professional clothes made me stand out. It felt very, entering-a-full-bomb-shelter ish. I looked left, where there was a wall and people sitting on those chairs, then right, and down at the end of the “hall” was a glass partition with a woman at a desk behind it. I took two steps in and let go of the door, silence and all eyes on me, until an older man pipped up.


This made me laugh. I grinned. “Thanks!” And walked down the hall to the reception desk.

“I think she’s going to sell us something!” I heard someone comment.

Turns out, I was at the wrong office, but that had to be the strangest and funniest one I encountered. Other offices were just as quick. One said they’d just hired someone. One the manager wasn’t there. One said they’re entering their slow season. All said they’d keep my resume on file. But one. Said they were actually hiring. In fact, “always looking for someone”. The manager said she’d talk to her boss and I’d hear back in three or four days. (Which is code, I’ve found, for, “YOU get to call US in three or four days”.)

It was a good first experience. I was pretty nervous and shaking the whole time. But I was even able to add in an office that wasn’t on my list. It was called “Laser Eye Surgery” or something high-end technical like that. It made me nervous, just the name. I guess I have this off the wall fear that being around places like that would mean that knocking a cup of pencils over would cause this chain reaction that would flow all the way to the doctor performing the eye surgery at that time, causing something to bang into his elbow and the laser will miss it’s critical spot and ensue someone going permanently blind, for the rest of their life. Who wants that on their conscience?

I walked into this laser place, which was empty all for what felt like a huge glass bubble in the middle of the waiting room. There were windows in the bubble, where young people in navy blue scrubs were stationed and chatting casually with each other from their desks. I just walked up and waited to see who would look at me first, then I went to that girl’s window. She told me the manager was in a meeting, so I quickly left the resume with her — and was OUT of there. It was strange. And scary. Like they were testing on aliens or something. I tried to get out so fast, I kept pulling the door until some flash of insight told me maybe try push? and I got out. Not the smoothest exit. .

Another not-so-smooth exit happened after I was leaving the second office, I was trying to use Volcan mind control to tell my dad, who was waiting in the car, the manager wasn’t in. Then my heel got stuck in the crack of the cement. My foot slipped out, and I almost had a Cinderella moment and tripped, but I wiggled my foot back in and released the heel from the crack. Afterwards, I was retelling the story and my dad goes, “oh I didn’t know you tripped. I thought that was your victory dance!”

My victory dance looks like tripping. Or my tripping looks like a victory dance. . Don’t know which needs work. But anyway. Back to the job. It’s just a waiting game now. . We’ll see.

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