I picked up the latest Time magazine this afternoon. Just something about the cover caught my eye. I think the headline went something like this: "What Teachers Hate About Parents." I guarantee that'll be my bedtime reading tonight. And before you say a word, yes, I'm a loser, sitting in bed on a Friday night, snuggled up with a Time magazine article. Hush. After all the hoopla I've been through in the past year, I welcome the silent company of a magazine.

It's funny because today's interview revolved around the teaching world, and I was asked why I left teaching. Well, y'all already know the answer to that, so I'm not going to bore you further with a verbose discussion on it. Instead, I'll move on to something I found to be quite hilarious about the whole interview process today, and it had nothing to do with the job itself.

I'm almost at a loss of what to wear to an interview. I have such a difficult time trying to find clothes that fit, and the pin-striped pants and white button-down blouse I had worn for my previous interview are still in the wash (something about line drying doesn't appeal to me...there's this thing called ironing that occurs after that, and I'm not too fond of that activity; believe me, every man I meet knows from day one that I'm not known for my housekeeping skills). What does this have to do with anything, you say? Well, I needed to find an outfit for today's interview. So, I delved head first into my box of clothes. Remember, I'm still at Amanda's and my hangers are in storage, so about 3/4 of my wardrobe is in a box big enough to fit two of me. I basically looked like one of those dogs digging in the backyard and looking for a place to bury a bone. Clothes were flung everywhere (Amanda, don't go in that room; you'll have a heart attack). I finally found a black dress that seemed professional enough to wear for a tutoring interview.

There was one dilemma left, though. My legs were going to show, and anyone with enough fashion sense and interview experience knows that a woman should not go into an interview with bare legs that resemble Casper's, especially when the color black will be against them. So the digging began again, and I finally found what I was looking for...thigh high stockings.

Now, normally I would wear pantyhose, and for the guys who don't know the difference, the stockings are those sexy-looking things that stop about mid thigh (or if you're short like I am, then stop about where my butt ends...lol). Pantyhose have that ugly, control top, undie-looking thing with an elastic waist that nearly cuts off a woman's circulation. Whoever invented hose should be shot. I detest the things. I can handle stockings for a brief period of time, and that's it. Anyway, I didn't have any pantyhose. All of mine had runs in them (another reason to hate the little boogers), and I threw them out before I moved. So I had two choices in front of me this morning: stockings or bare, Casper-look-alike legs. I chose the former.

Big mistake.

I hadn't realized it, but when I got out of the car and walked towards the Corner Bakery (where my interview took place), my stockings had begun to slip down my thighs. You'd think that thighs like mine would keep those babies up, but noooo. And you'd think I'd realize that something was slipping down my thighs (bad news for any guys out there; my thigh sensitivity must be diminishing...lol). It took me sitting down across the table from the interviewer, crossing my legs, and feeling the lace of the stocking just above my knee. "How in the hell did that happen?" was the first thought that ran through my mind while I tried desperately to discretely inch them upwards while smiling sweetly at the man in the tie before me. To no avail, though. The stockings only budged a mere centimeter or two.

To make matters worse, the interviewer asked if I wanted something to drink. I said yes in an effort to get him to go in line, wait for the bottled water, and allow me to adjust my underthings. At that point I was a desperate woman. No such luck, though. He wanted me to go in line with him, and so I shuffled my way, in three inch heels and slipping stockings, and prayed with all my might that my stockings would remain above the knee and thus above the hemline of my dress. The fashion goddess answered my prayer just barely, and I managed to make it back to the table without looking like granny, her knee highs, and elephant ankles.

To make a long story short, I made it through the interview, but the thought of my slipping stockings invaded my mind constantly, and though I avidly tried to keep the stockings at a decent height on my thigh, I never did succeed, and when the interview ended, the man asked me where I had parked. My mind nearly went into convulsions because I knew that in a mere 1.2 seconds, those stockings were going to end up around my calves, and I did not need chivalry at that precise moment. Any other, but not that one. I did not want him walking me to my car and discovering that I can't keep my stockings on. That just doesn't seem like a good impression to me. My prayers were answered once again, and he went in the opposite direction from where I was parked, which allowed me to shuffle my way to my car.

I should let you know that I did not make it in time. I reached the tail end of my car when my stockings dipped down beyond the hemline of my dress, and the lace was hanging around my calves, which was my biggest fear. I hightailed into my car and proceeded to yank those things back up to my thighs where they belonged. I then sped home and vowed never to wear stockings to an interview ever again.

The moral? There's just something to be said about control top pantyhose.