Hasenfeffer Incorporated, part 2

In case I haven’t bitched-slash-rejoiced about it enough, I have five days left until I am unemployed. This is bad because my job pays more than I am likely to earn for many years. This is good because I will have a nice long six week vacation with severance, and then I start grad school. At which point I of course will cease to have any concerns regarding finances or future stability. Chortle chortle.

The point is, I will have to work during school anyway, so with this in mind I had an interview on Friday for a freelance writing gig that is potentially the best deal I’m going to get under the circumstances. It was rainy and muggy and I wasn’t sure what to wear, especially since it was less of a normal interview than a group information session. But despite the inevitable discomfort, I channeled my mother and decided it was best to go with a suit and be overdressed rather than under. I got myself to the train station, wet and sticky and big-haired before I even got out my Metrocard.

As I was walking to the escalator, I heard someone call “Miss!” from behind me. Since I hear this about six times daily in Jersey City, usually from crazies, I ignored it and kept walking. But after the fourth time he shouted, urgency increased, I turned around and copped the most “what the fuck do YOU want?” look I could cop. But instead of hearing the expected request for a dollar for the train or ta-ta-related flattery, I saw that my caller was a security guard who was asking me to come there with several sideways glances.

Having had my wallet stolen two months ago, I was sure he was going to tell me that something on my bag was open or hanging out insecurely or that there was a suspected rapist on the train or something. But instead he said, “um, miss, I’m not sure, but, um, I think you may have ripped your pants.” Horrified and trying not to vigorously grab my ass in a panic, I thanked him and scuttled away, tugging on my jacket and looking around like a schitzophrenic. I ducked into the drugstore nearby for safety pins and a Red Bull (yeah, so?) and ran down the stairs right in time to miss the train by about six seconds.

The next train got me to the interview (after running shifty-eyed through the rain) with exactly three minutes to spare, so I sprinted into the ladies’ to see just what we were dealing with here.

What we were dealing with was right down the center seam of my pants and approximately seven inches long.

I hurriedly attempted to pin it up, ignoring for the time being the plain fact that instead of a rip down my ass crack I now had an only slightly narrowed rip and a row of crooked metal bars. I shuffled down the hallway, back against the wall, until I could slip into a seat in the assigned conference room. Where, naturally, everyone else was wearing summery business casual.

I will skip over the part where two of the pins came undone and gored my thigh for a good one-third of the session, because I don’t think you need to hear about that. So I’ll just let you know that as all stories such as this inevitably end, I now have a new pair of Gap jeans.

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7 Comments

  1. crotchless suits are the new black.

  2. Yo Mama

     /  July 11, 2005

    The fact remains, being overdressed for a job interview won’t be held against you; being underdressed will. Having your ass hanging out could go either way.

  3. snowy

     /  July 11, 2005

    *snort* HAW HAW HAW!!

    ugh. sorry. i can’t stop laughing at this image.
    *sigh* what an embarrassing moment. *snicker*

    xoxox

  4. what a nightmare.

    My nightmare, anyway. My butt has grown in the past year, giving me a new/different shape that my pants reject like a stranger’s bone marrow.
    (SMILE when you simile!)

    I don’t see how denim fixes this.

  5. How denim fixes it is that every time I’ve ever had any kind of mid-day wardrobe malfunction, I’ve solved it by going to the Gap. They are the leader in multi-purpose emergency wear.

  6. Too bad your pants beat you to the “gap” by a couple of hours.

  7. A very similar thing happened to me once. I was sitting in a doctor’s office waiting for my appointment, and I could just feel the guy in the seat across from me giving me the eye. In my usual surly way, I was thinking, “Ug. Leave me alone, hit on someone else.” So while I was flipping through my magazine and simmering with my grouchy thoughts about this guy who I had yet to even look up at yet, he got up, handed me a business card, then went and sat back down and began reading a magazine himself. I was thinking, “Ug. I don’t want your phone number,” but I glanced down at the card and saw that he had written “Your dress is unbuttoned in the back.” I was wearing a skirt and top, and the top was one of those that buttoned all the way up the back. I had buttoned only the top and bottom buttons, and was running around with the entire back open, like an idiot. And this guy had found the nicest, least humiliating way to let me know about it–while like an self-absorbed jackass, I had assumed he was trying to hit on me. Humble pie: so tasty.

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