Post Imperfect

Skip the sneakers.

That’s just one nugget of advice that comes up when you google “how to dress for a job interview.”

Men are advised to wear polished leather dress shoes or oxfords to go with a navy, charcoal, or black suit with a light-colored button-down shirt, “along with a conservative, high-quality tie.”

But you can’t wear kicks.

Of course, I already knew that. I always put on my dress shoes when I meet with a prospective employer, no matter how laid back the company appears to be.

And yet I did that very thing when I went to inquire about a reporting position at the Washington Post.

Well, it wasn’t a real interview. This was a moment in yet another very weird dream of mine where I had gone to the 149-year-old publication in the nation’s capital and made a string of rookie interview mistakes that looked like a career suicide note.

This wasn’t a full-blown nightmare where I wake up trembling and thanking God none of the horrifying events actually happened. No, this was more like a low-grade fever dream that had me mildly rattled and mighty confused.

First, I forgot the name of the person I was supposed to see, and then I looked down and saw that I wasn’t wearing my perfectly polished black shoes but a pair of ratty old sneakers that should’ve been hurled into the nearest dumpster.

And I had no interest whatsoever in working for the famed publication that brought down Richard Nixon a generation ago, especially now that it’s been brutally lobotomized by Amazon megalomaniac and four-alarm Trump knob polisher Jeff Bezos.

I haven’t even applied for a newspaper job in at least a decade—Jesus, maybe more.

Notes and Bolts

God willing, this is my last year of employment before I retire. I plan on holding out until I turn 70 so I can maximize my Social Security payout, and I have absolutely no interest in going through the interview ordeal at this stage of my life.

Plus, I like my job. I’ve been there for seven years and, since Covid, I’ve been working from home, which I couldn’t do at the Washington Post or a whole bunch of other companies.

Then the dream took a weird turn when I woke up—or maybe I didn’t—and I wasn’t sure if I had gone to the interview at all. I thought about checking my credit card bill to see if I had a charge from Amtrak for the trip to D.C.

At some point I recall finding stationery from the Post with some kind of doodles, indicating I indeed did go to the interview—and apparently swiped the guy’s notepad.

You know, something tells me I didn’t get the job.

I pride myself on being able to determine the origins of my dreams and nightmares, where I review problems or events in my waking life that might have triggered the nocturnal laser light show.

But this one was challenging. The holiday weekend was just beginning, I was getting ready for my birthday dinner with my family, and I had taken a few extra days off to give myself a mini vacation.

So why all this drama?

The only thing I can think of is that some part of my subconscious didn’t want me to relax. It’s only comfortable with my discomfort, and so it sent me this midnight message.

And perhaps the dream was a warning about my propensity for self-sabotage that has dogged me for years both professionally and personally.

Now that I’m heading toward retirement it’s time to bring that shadow self into the light. I’ve been working on this for a long time and I’m hoping to break these emotional chains once and for all.

I’ll keep you posted.