My interview went incredibly well. The room had 6 very accomplished, powerful legal minds, and they were a great group of interviewers. I think we clicked. It was hands down the best interview I’ve ever done. I was full of jittery energy when I left, so I retreated to Borders, changed in the handicapped stall a la Clark Kent, and then proceeded to rock out in the CD section to Juvenile, “Slow Motion” and “Back that Thang Up.” I chewed off all my fingernails and decided that I will call them tomorrow and withdraw my application.
As much as I loved the interview, the job itself will not be a good fit. It’s mostly policy, research, and education. For me, it would be nice to be affiliated with the organization, and I’m sure that I’d learn so much and make a lot of connections. But, as I conceded in my interview, as much as I think that policy work is important, I get my energy from working with clients, and that’s what I intend for my career to be.
I feel a little guilty about calling them tomorrow to withdraw, since I’m going to stick them with a $400 travel bill.
I briefly reconsidered my decision a moment ago, when I was turned down for a fellowship with the Georgia Capital Defender. My first rejection. But I still don’t think that I should allow my application to remain under consideration with this particular fellowship. There are people who are truly jazzed to do policy and education with their law degree, and those are the people who would benefit from the program and be a benefit to the agency. I’d be dead weight. My mother, bless her soul, almost had a heart attack. She’d prefer that I be employed in a job I don’t like than be unemployed. She may have a point. However, I am far too arrogant and far too driven to concede defeat at this point.
Womanofthelaw’s Vital Statistics for November 15, 2004:
Number of applications sent: Who knows. 15-ish?
Number of interviews: 7
Number of rejections: 1
Number of inevitable additional rejections: 2 more are certain.
Number of Gabriel Garcia Marquez books read to date: 2
Number of Marquez’s books in my possession left to read: 2
Conversations my roommate had about me, not realizing I could hear his every word: 1 [i'm still stewing over this one]