Being the Bomb vs. Bombing It

So, I had a series of preliminary interviews this week.  Three, to be exact.  I felt okay about 2 out of the 3.  But of course the one is what I've already partly blocked and am desperately trying to stuff into the "to be utterly forgotten" box of my hyper-critical, insecure, obsessive brain.  Ugh.

Must we indulge ourselves with particulars?  No, we mustn't.  But suffice it to say that I just felt totally thrown off of my usually upbeat, confident game.  I was up to bat, a straightforward, legitimate question was pitched (may I add that the pitcher seemed previously unmoved and unconvinced by any illusions of my competency or gravitas?), and I blanked.  By the time I managed an ill-executed swing..."STEEEEERIKE!"  O, time travel god, I beseech you, go back to the time of my conception and give my mother a "headache," causing me to unexist!

I will give these particulars, though: All of my interviews before that one had been conducted by a mixture of native and non-native speakers of Spanish, and had been primarily conducted in English, although at least one or two of the questions were asked of me in Spanish so that I could demonstrate my fluency.  However, in this case, all of the committee members were native speakers and the entire interview was conducted in Spanish.  Even after all this time studying the language, I am often very insecure about my abilities, particularly with native speakers.  That was factor number one throwing me off my game.

I will also add that I applied for this particular position not really expecting to get a call back because I didn't think I was qualified (they wanted someone to "direct" a particular program in addition to teaching), but went for it anyway because it is extremely close to my husband's family and the post was seeking someone with interdisciplinary interests, which lines up with my research.  So, when I did get a call back, I was like, Okay, well they've seen my CV so it's not like they don't already know what I've done and what I haven't done, but apparently they still want to talk to me so...it wouldn't kill me to try and see. Little did I know how much of a confidence punch to the gut it would be.

It wasn't my dream job, I was iffy about it in the first place, I was psyched out by the all-native speaker, all-Spanish interview, and I was utterly unprepared for a pretty legit question.  Donc, voilà, what you expect?  Le catastrophe, that's what.

Not to be a cornball, cheesy after school special moral of the storyist, but it was a learning experience.  If such a question is asked in the future, I'll know to be prepared for it, most importantly.  Even if you're the bomb most of the time (which I don't believe I am, which makes me feel uber-impostor syndromed when other people seem to think that I am), it's still not altogether a bad thing to be reminded that you can still bomb it.

Why don't I want to be one of "those" women?

Because...it's annoying.  "Hubby" this, "hubby" that, "I can't wait until hubby gets home," pictures of what you made "hubby" for dinner, cute stories of what "hubby" did or said.  Geez, get a life.  Do you not have an identity apart from "hubby"?  We get it.  He's sweet and makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside and you're ga-ga for him and you have the best hubby ever.  But then, after my annoyance subsides and I take a look at some of my own FB and blog posts, an inconvenient truth manifests itself right upside my head...

I am one of those women.

(Except, in my defense, I don't use the term "hubby."  My husband refuses to be identified as such, and I'm totally with him on it.  It's just trite.  I say "hubs" instead.)

But back to the issue at hand, why does the idea of being identified as one of those women chafe against me?  Why does the whole, omg my husband is the best ever and we're so happy and have so much fun together look at how cute we are bother me?  I'm the hugest hypocrite when it comes to this, because do I not do the same thing? But not just that, what's wrong with it?

I'm so weird.  Like, when I was single, I wanted a husband, but I didn't want to be one of those girls who wanted a husband.  Like, oh my Lord, I am a wretched single girl over 30 and I'm going to end up with withered ovaries and an overabundance of cats if Jesus don't make a way. Ugh.  When I finally had a significant other, I didn't want to be one of those girls who finally had a significant other.  Like as if, okay now I have a boyfriend so my existence is officially validated.  Ugh.  And then when I got engaged, I was excited, but I didn't want to be one of those engaged girls.  Like, OMG my wedding day is MY day and I've been dreaming of this day my whole life and I can't wait to say yes to the dress and salivate over floral arrangements and wedding favors. Ugh.  And now that I'm married, I'm so in love with my husband it's ridiculous, but I balk at the question "How's married life?"  Like I'm supposed to be emanating rainbow beams because at long last, I have achieved the ultimate life goal of becoming a Mrs.  Nawl.

I guess, number one, there is nothing wrong with wanting to show the world how cute you and your husband are.  I think people should be ga-ga for each other.  I'm certainly ga-ga over my man.  But I guess my reservation comes from the idea that 'ga-ga' is the only acceptable mode.  You see what I'm saying?  Like, just as I felt this pressure to be enraptured with all the frou-frou of a wedding when that just wasn't me.  I think it's 100% fine to be enraptured with wedding details if that's your thing, but it's the idea that 'enraptured' is the only acceptable attitude to have towards a wedding that bothered me.

I mean, part of it is the idea of not wanting to be considered in this stereotypical way, part of it is not wanting a certain mode to be the only acceptable mode, but part of it is something else.  It's this implicit idea that I should be grateful.  I mean, that's not it.  I am grateful.  But that I should be ecstatic because someone putting a ring on it saved me from a fate worse than death.

Aren't you excited?  Yes, I wanted to answer, but not for the reason you think I am.  I went through this stage where my brain interpreted "Aren't you excited?" as "Aren't you thanking your lucky stars that a functioning man finally took it upon himself to have mercy on your long-undesired self and redeem you, rescuing you from a life of wrinkled-up spinsterhood?"  I know, I'm horrible.

Maybe I just need to accept the fact that I'm now one of those women and not care and stop being so judgmental of other those women just because I don't want to be like them even though I am.  After all, I can't wait to see my hubs in a little while.  We're going home to eat a dinner of porkchops, mashed potatoes and gravy and carrots.  But I'm not posting a picture of it, don't get it twisted.