The Transplant Makes His Move: Part Deux

Within the past hour I have checked my gmail account nearly 100 times.

Now ask me why.

I am looking for what nearly nine and a half percent of the population of the United States are looking for. I am hoping to find, boldly displayed in my inbox, an e-mail which reads, "Congratulations. You're Hired!" Only a notice of such magnitude could motivate a man like me to check his e-mail account at such an alarming rate. I am not wasting my time. I should note that unlike most unemployed Americans, I could potentially receive an e-mail much like the one previously mentioned.

Yesterday, around 1p.m., I took the Red Line south into the heart of the city. On the eighth floor of a high-rise somewhere along East Ontario Street I put my future on the line. Yesterday, November 10, 2009, I sat down to my first career-minded interview. I attended this absurdly important consultation in hopes of becoming the newest intern at a certain boutique public relations firm. Donning a sharply pressed shirt and sweaty palms, I fired off the answers to all the usual questions. At the time of the interview, I did not realize the significance of the situation. While I sat in an unfamiliar surrounding, I failed to grasp the fact that this could finally provide entrance to the real-world. As I collected my thoughts and carefully mapped out the direction of my responses, I did not comprehend where this process could take me. It's only now while looking back on the ordeal that I realize I did well. Whew.

Though the internship opportunity may go to someone else, I am thankful to have gotten that first oh-so-important interview under my belt. The excitement of the interview has rejuvenated my ambitions. It has reminded me why I, along with my loving, intelligent, dedicated, funny and beautiful girlfriend (and our lazy, clumsy, crack-head-of-a-Neapolitan Mastiff) moved to Chicago in the first place.* We three moved to the Third Coast to begin the rest of our lives. If I actually performed half as well as I thought I had at that office on the eighth floor of a high-rise along East Ontario Street then it can be ascertained that the rest of our lives will be fulfilling, adventurous.

As for now I must complete this blog posting. After all, I need to check my gmail account for the 101st time.

*Actually, our lazy, clumsy, crack-head-of-a-Neapolitan Mastiff just came along for the ride. He's easygoing like that.