True Story

The rain in Manhattan yesterday was unlike anything I had seen before. It was a torrential, pounding, merciless, violent downpour. And it happened to occur as I was walking to a job interview. And I happened to have forgotten to bring an umbrella that day. Not that it would have mattered anyhow, the rain came from all sides. It was like the Atlantic ocean had been transported to 47th street. The street I had to walk down four blocks to get to my interview.

I tried to wait it out under an awning. I tried to catch a cab. I tried to buy an umbrella. But I was already running late. There comes a point when you’re so saturated with water, you pretty much can’t get any wetter, so you just say “fuck it” and march across the flood, ignoring the lightening and thunder overhead. Turns out that you can in fact get wetter, and I did. I got really, ridiculously, comically wet. I was soaked.

The doorman looked shocked as I swam into the first floor atrium of 466 Lexington. The receptionist handed me a stack of paper towels. If only he had a blow dryer and a clothes dryer behind his desk, he might have been helpful.

Luckily, my roommate, Cate, happens to work in the same building where my interview was. I opted to be another 10 minutes late for my interview and head to her office first to dry off. I had gone shopping that day at lunch, so I had a dry shirt to change into. And, this is the test of true friendship, Cate gave me the skirt she was wearing to put on for my interview. THAT is a good friend.

With dry clothes on, I walked confidently into my interview 30 minutes late. They understood, and were impressed I made it there at all. As I sat down to be interviewed, relieved to be out of the rain, I realized that I had not changed out of my wet under-things. The rainwater from my bra was quickly seeping through my new shirt, leaving giant lactating marks. And when I stood up, I noticed that my underwear had soaked through the back of Cate’s skirt, leaving what looked like a pee-stain on my ass and a puddle on the chair. I started to wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to show up in my wet clothes than look like I wet myself on the Creative Director’s chair.

I had no choice but to just say out loud what I knew he was thinking. “Look, I’m not lactating and I didn’t pee in your chair. I’m wearing my friend’s clothes and my own wet underwear. Sorry. It’s really pouring outside.”

He appreciated my boldness and honesty. I think I’ll get the job.