So... Tell Me About Yourself

They really do want to know "about yourself". I find it so weird.

I mean, have you ever walked up to someone, for example a person of your desired sex, and gone, "So. Tell me about yourself"?

I had a roommate when I lived in the Big Gay House who said that guys would walk up to him in clubs and go, "So. What's your story?"

I guess when you're gay, you... have a story? Or maybe Germans have stories? Or maybe there is some sort of Known Thing here where everyone has a story that they tell about themselves, same as the Known Things of keeping all your bank printouts, recycling glass bottles by color, buying Bio, and haggling. For some reason that I can never comprehend, all of these Things are Known by everyone who lives here, sort of like how your mom ALWAYS knows which Sunday is Daylight Savings Sunday. Some people just know, and you don't.

Since my last job interview blog I have been on two more interviews. One was for a "beach bar" and my good friend Laura and I had back-to-back interviews, which was random and convenient. We left the place together and crossed our fingers that the other one would not be hired (or that if she were, that we would be too). Frau Krause was a bleach-blonde, chain-smoking lady in her 40s with a gravelly voice and an open demeanor. We both liked her, she claimed to like both of us, but neither of us got the job. Woe for Laura, but I had another interview on Friday.

Fancy secured building in a desirable neighborhood, I was impressed/intimidated. I mean, there's me, in my best outfit, which includes €1,25 stockings and some leather loafers my gramma gave me nearly three years ago, and there's these guys, with a damn intercom and glass doors and a foyer. I get in the elevator, smooth my hair, and enter the office. First thing I see is an open door--good sign, and a long hallway--not-so-good sign. Luckily, the very first office on the right belonged to Herr Diers, with whom I had the appointment. A young man in jeans, a ball cap, and a swollen eye shakes my hand and asks me what I'm doing here. I tell him. He says that Herr Diers is not there and looks at me skeptically. I go, "Today is Friday?" He says yes. "And it's 12:00?" I confirm, looking at my wrist, tattooed where the watch should be--a bad habit of mine when exasperated or impatient--he nods. He leads me to an austere waiting room that looks more like one found in a Planned Parenthood than in a corporate office. I pick up People magazine.

Mr Ballcap Rowdy-In-The-Club comes back and tells me that Herr Diers won't be back for 45 minutes and maybe I should fuck off until then. I leave, drink a beer (for the nerves!) and come back, to be greeted by another young man in jeans. It feels weird to call this 29-year-old guy Mr. So-and-So, but so be it, it's Germany. He asks if I mind if he smokes. What is this, an episode of Perry Mason? Or some other 50s workplace where people still smoke in their offices? Obviously I didn't mind if he smokes, I just want a job.

"So. Tell me about yourself."

Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

So I told him whatever I thought he wanted to hear in order to insure that he offered me the job.

And he did.

Pay is good, hours are fantastic, I just have to do about 274642748509873 hours of curriculum planning, but at least I'll be a teacher again, and not some grunt washing dishes or polishing shoes or driving Miss Daisy and having to invent an actual personality and qualifications in order to convince an employer that mine are the best hands for the job.