Only a Dream

After 380 interviews — yes, you read that right, three hundred and eighty — I was finally hired. The confetti cannons went off in my head, my imaginary HR rep handed me an overly enthusiastic “Welcome Aboard!” mug, and my inner child did a victory lap around the kitchen table.

I immediately updated my LinkedIn headline to “Employed 🎉” (never mind that it’s always a bit weird to celebrate the bare minimum requirement for paying rent). I called my mom, who screamed so loudly the dog hid under the bed. I even wrote a humblebrag post thanking “the journey” and “everyone who believed in me” — even though most of those people were just LinkedIn bots and that one guy from high school who endorses me for “Microsoft Excel” every other Tuesday.

I laid out my first-day outfit like I was preparing for the Met Gala. Crisp shirt, professional but approachable blazer, shoes that scream “I’m responsible but fun at happy hour.” I even bought new pens. NEW. PENS.

The night before my start date, I barely slept. I kept rehearsing my new intro: “Hi everyone, I’m Alex, super excited to be here, I love teamwork, long walks on the printer paper aisle at Staples, and quarterly performance reviews that feel like therapy sessions!”

Then, around 3 a.m., I started to notice something strange. The welcome email was blurry. The calendar invite for orientation kept flickering. My keyboard turned into a pile of rejection letters. I looked down, and instead of a laptop, I was holding an “Application Unsuccessful” cookie bouquet.

That’s when I realized: I WAS DREAMING.

Yep. I had finally been hired — in a dream so vivid it should be sponsored by Indeed.

I woke up with my heart pounding and my phone in hand, ready to check my inbox for an offer letter that did not exist. There it was: another polite rejection email from a company that ghosted me three times before finally telling me I was “not a fit at this time” (also known as corporate speak for “We went with the CEO’s nephew”).

380 interviews. 380 chances to answer “Tell me about yourself” without crying. 380 opportunities to say, “My biggest weakness is caring too much,” and pretend it isn’t actually “applying for jobs while having an existential crisis over a bag of Doritos at 2 a.m.”

I’ve been on so many Zoom interviews that I’ve developed a Pavlovian response to the Teams ringtone — I hear it and immediately break out into a nervous sweat and start explaining why I’m “passionate about cross-functional collaboration.”

I’ve made best friends with my own reflection during virtual interviews. At this point, we’re so close, I might send it a Christmas card.

And the questions! Oh, the questions. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Probably still refreshing my email. “Why do you want to work here?” Because capitalism. “If you were a tree, what kind would you be?” One that’s screaming into the void.

But despite all this, I keep going. Because maybe, just maybe, the next one is real. Maybe the next “Congratulations!” email won’t turn into a giant “Oops! Wrong candidate!” banner in my dreamscape. Maybe I’ll finally get to meet my new coworkers in person, awkwardly hover by the Keurig machine, and bond over shared trauma from annual compliance training.

Until then, I’ll keep dreaming — literally and figuratively. Because somewhere in the universe, there’s a job with my name on it (and hopefully decent dental insurance). And when I finally get it, I’ll wear that blazer with pride, wield those new pens like swords, and update my headline to “Finally Employed (For Real This Time).”

But today? Today I’m still here. Wide awake. Refreshing. Laughing. And somehow, still hopeful. Because even after 380 interviews (and one extremely vivid dream), I refuse to give up.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another interview to prepare for. And possibly a nap.