Once upon a time there was a 22-year-old recent college graduate who was actively seeking a teaching job. She had done some serious studying-up about interview protocol, because she really wanted to make a good and lasting impression on the Personnel Manager who had total control over the job market in this school system.
The college graduate carefully selected appropriate clothing (size 5) for the world of education she hoped to soon be a part of. She removed all the long dangling hippie jewelry and replaced it with boring smaller more business-like pieces. She brushed her long hair and twisted it up to resemble Miss Gulch from the Wizard of Oz a modest, mature, serious teacher-type hairstyle. She borrowed some shoes from her conservative sister. She practiced clownish expressions serious mature demeanor in the mirror. She was ready to be interviewed.
When she got to the Administration Building, she wasn’t surprised to find the waiting room packed full of others who would be vying for this one position. She contemplated yelling “Fire” and then locking the door after them when they ran out, but decided such tactics would be immature and unfair. She knew that demeanor and seriousness would be the deciding factors for this job. She really wanted this job.
One by one, the applicants were called into the office. None ever returned. It was kind of creepy. Apparently we’d all been to the same “how to walk into the boss’s office” seminar, too. Clone after clone got up, walked gracefully and professionally to the door, waited to be invited inside, and entered to find out his/her fate. I was last.
Oh, man, I really wanted this job.
My name was finally called and I stood up to face my future. I stood in the doorway of His Office and paused, waiting for him to tell me to enter. He did. I took one step.
I tripped over the doorsill, somersaulted across his floor, bounced off his desk and finally came to a dead stop, sitting down, skirt around my waist, legs sprawled like a doll at a picnic, my hair escaping from the pins and cascading down my back, one shoe on and the other shoe finally coming to rest behind his desk, and the contents of my purse strewn across his desktop, mingling with his office supplies. My comb was in his coffee cup.
We stared slack-jawed at each other for a few minutes, and finally I said, “Now that I’ve got your attention. . . . .” and we both started laughing hysterically. He asked me just a few questions, we gathered up all my scattered debris, and I was dismissed.
I cried all the way home, because who would hire me after that entrance?
He did.
The next day he called and said that out of all the applicants, I was the only one who had done or said anything at all that he could remember, and that the job was mine if I wanted it. He also told me that my comb would be in my new school mailbox.
I thanked him in the dignified Oscar-winner way, and we laughed some more.
When I cleaned out that purse and transferred the contents to a more dignified teacher-type purse, I found his stapler and a memo to his secretary asking her to buy better coffee at the bottom.
I sent the stapler, and a little jar of good coffee, to him through the school mail.
He was later removed from that position because he was caught in flagrante delicto with that same secretary. Now he sells real estate.
A sense of humor is absolutely vital to any position in any occupation. I include morticians in this opinionated assertation. You gots no sense of humor, you ain’t worth beans.
People in positions of power, who have no sense of humor, are more harmful than anyone could ever imagine.
In no way whatsoever do I condone his having an affair. He definitely screwed up with that. (affair. screwed. there i go again, cracking myself up.)
But I will always remember how his laughter helped that young woman who was trying so desperately to be mature and professional, and who was thwarted by a strip of metal, the law of gravity, and her own inability to be dignified.