This one time... a thread.

This one time I had an interview in Beverly Hills for a receptionist job I didn’t want. I was wearing a button down shirt, suit pants, heels. I felt put together. I will repeat. It wasn’t a job I wanted but I needed a job so I went.

I didn’t want the job because the people seemed rude. I was quickly told on the phone the expectations and it seemed like anyone who didn’t strive to be an influencer would be out of place. But I needed a job so I went.

I got to the location and there was a parking garage. I parked, got out and instantly felt the summer heat assault me. I really didn’t want this job. I picked up the pace and headed to the elevator. I spun and spun and spun, but it was nowhere to be found.

Now here’s something about me you should know, when nervous, I’m quick to panic. So there I am, now sweating, spinning in circles, with no idea how to get out of this parking garage to interview for a job i didn’t want. Then I see a door that says “stairs” so I think, why not?

The moment that door shut behind me I knew these were not the stairs I was looking for. I was in some dim, sweltering maintenance stairwell. I turned to leave and realized, there was no door handle. And my pulse started to really race.

So I run down the steps in my heels, assuming I’ll hit street level at some point. But I don’t. I hit creepy basement. And that’s when the nausea kicked in. I’m now 20 minutes late to my interview, get no cell service in this stairwell and I’m drenched in sweat.

So I run up every level. I’m now carrying my heels, the resume in my other hand is a crumpled mess, still not sure to this day why I never put it in my purse, but then again, I wasn’t thinking clearly, I was running up and down steps to get to a job I didn’t want.

Finally I get to the roof. And THERE IS A DOOR HANDLE! And I race out of it! It looks like the kind of roof that people frequent. I assumed it was the top of the parking complex. I was wrong. And as the door shut behind me, I turned and sobbed...

Because there was a door handle and a little spot to slide a key card. But without that card there was no way of getting back in. I called the place and tried to explain but let’s just say it didn’t go over well. Then the door opened.

A maintenance guy came up for a smoke. He looked at me, sobbing, soaked to the bone, and just stared. He didn’t speak English, I don’t speak Spanish, but he got me to the interview ... through a maintenance door so I emerged behind the receptionist scaring the shit out of her.

She quickly told me I was too late and obviously this wasn’t going to work and to have a nice day. And I looked her dead in the eye and said “tell me exactly how to get out of this fucking building”

And I went to the ground floor. And i stood on the street. And i entered exactly where I’d driven. And I carried my heels as I walked back up the ramp. As cars honked at me. As I tried not to pass out from the heat. And I found my car. And I drove home.

I was stuck in that stairwell for almost an hour. Not even kidding, it was terrifying. And I’m not really sure why I’m telling this story. Maybe because today has been horrible. And when days are horrible I like to remind myself that they could be worse.

I could still be stuck in a stairwell in Beverly Hills. Or even worse? They could have hired me. But maybe I tell myself this story because it reminds me that when something doesn’t feel right, grab your heels and run.