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Hard times in New York Town

"My style? hm let me think ... Marilyn-meets-the fockers?"

How I have not become a personal assistant


Last week, a fashion blogger that I love opened a job position to become her personal assistant. Oh god, that is so me! I thought with my classic perfect judgment- and I sent a CV. Strangely enough, I got an interview.

At this time, I should probably mention that:

– I wear greyish sub-Gap-TShirts paired with old black jeans. Yes, it has been the case every day since high school.

– I belong to this category of people who have to think twice (or 300 times) before opening a letter from the bank / filing taxes / buying plane tickets.

Bref, I was, as they say here, “the perfect fit” to be a P.A. in the fashion industry.

The interview was scheduled for the next day. I didn’t exactly have time to lose 10 pounds, but I did try eating only cucumbers for one day, just in case. Then I tried to hide my mama belly under a smartly oversized dress. Then I requested my husband to take care of baby Yann while I would live my life as a newly empowered fashion icon.

I left proudly, hair dancing in the wind, elegant Csection scarred-silhouette.

Verdict:

1/ It was my first interview with someone who could almost be my daughter. At some point I made a weird joke about it. The girl quietly smiled behind her pretty glasses.

2/ Note for later: pursuant to a secret NY rule, self-mockery is prohibited.

3/ Note for later: pursuant to a secret NY Fashion rule, self-mockery on outfits is prohibited.

3 bis / when interviewed by someone who works in fashion, you are expected to answer that you love fashion. Not a stupid “bah euh … not really?”

4/ after 10 minutes, the girl had clearly understood how poorly suited I was for the position, but unfortunately, the waiter had forgotten about my latte so we both politely had to wait for another 10 minutes of Bernard-Herrmann-Jaws-Soundtrack-waiting. I lost 17 papilla to drink my latte extra quickly so the poor girl wouldn’t have to struggle finding another subject.

5/ No one should be interviewed in a foreign language 3 weeks after giving birth. Ever. At some point, I might have slurred some indistinctive be-bop nonsense, but I am not too sure- I was too exhausted to listen to the sounds I was making anyway.

I took the subway back and immediately glued little Yann back to my breast – he had apparently been screaming non-stop since I’d left. And I came back to my non-fashion mama life, thinking that at least, this could make a new blog post.

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1 Comment

  •    Reply

    Tu ne recules devant rien!! Un long weekend en bagnole 2 semaines avant l’accouchement, un entretien 3 semaines après!? Banco! Je suis Pleine d’admiration ma poule!! Gros bisous

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