Adventures in Unemployment Numero Dos

I left the house around 12:08pm for my interview with Kaplan U., which left ample time to arrive at 550 W. Van Buren by 1:20pm (25 minutes early) after one train and a bus transfer. What I didn't plan for was the excruciating pain my $15 sale price Nine West cherry red stiletto pumps (on the clearance rack at Burlington Coat Factory) would cause me for the 5 long Chicago blocks of walking to the green line train station. I debated turning back to the apartment to roll my dress pants up and grab some sneakers, but I was too worried about being late for the train. Minutes flew by and the street signs seemed to change slower than ever. My shoes, pinching my feet into tightly bound triangle shapes imprinting my heels and toe beds, turning my legs into rickety stilts barely balancing the rest of my body. I finally arrive at the green line, clenching the railing of the slippery looking steps up to the platform. Crap. I missed the train toward Cottage Grove, so I get on the one toward Ashland. I check my mapped transit instructions to make sure I get off at the correct stop. For the first time, I'm in too much pain to care about pulling out my ipod or a book (as I usually do, to make it look like I know what I'm doing). I listen to the girl sitting behind me, who seems to be explaining what bus to take to her friend on the other end of the line. Her friend doesn't seem to be competent. The girl gets irate, tells her friend she doesn't give a shit how she gets there, and doesn't want to hear her bitching when she complains about the long route she decided to take against her advice. I laugh, wish I could be more like that girl, putting my two cents in, copping an attitude when someone really frustrates me instead of being patient and attentive. I get off at Madison and  Wabash, searching for the correctly numbered bus stop, 60, the blue toward Cicero. It's pulling away as I walk up to the stop. I pretend not to be phased, read the bus sign to see if it says how often #60 stops there, it says daily, so I figure it couldn't be more than a 15 minute wait. Two latino men wait with me, I hear them conversing in Spanish, and long to ask them what time it is. I know exactly how I'd say it . . . "perdon. que hora es . . ." even though I could just check my cell phone in my purse instead. I check my phone, it's only 1:00pm, which leaves still, plenty of time to get to West Van Buren. The bus arrives, I climb abroad and sit with my feet dangling (even with the heels) on an aisle seat. I pull out the trail mix from my purse and dive in, in order to stave off any hunger that might occur when I need to be concentrating on the interview. It's my first time trying to properly use the bus, so I watch how people board, and how they depart. Ah! The marquee by the front of the bus tells the passengers where the next stop is! What a revelation. I sit back a little more comfortably, and watch the stop go by until the bus turns onto Clinton. I squint at the upcoming street signs, anticipating the moment that I get to pull the chord and make the dinging noise (such a nerd). I see Van Buren approaching, and just as I'm reaching for the chord, another passenger makes the ding. Ah poop. I get up and prepare to exit at the back door, but change my mind when the bus door opens and a giant puddle 2 feet wide (and who knows how deep) awaits me at the bottom of the step. I get off at the front of the bus, and lo and behold, the stop is at exactly 550 West Van Buren, my destination. I check my phone . . . only 1:15 . . . 30 more minutes until everybody is supposed to meet in front of the starbucks in the building lobby. I begrudgingly walk into the starbucks, and order a double shot americano, sit at a table, eat some more trail mix, and read the book I bought a few weeks ago at a garage sale. I survey the people coming in and out, trying to pick out which others are there for the group meeting, and how many others there actually will be at the meeting. I finish the coffee, and head to the bathroom for one last pit stop, but there's someone in the one-stalled room so I just head out to the lobby. I walk toward the large group of young people that seems to be forming off to the right of the front doors. I ask them if they're here for the interview with Kaplan, they all smile and laugh. Every body else including me seems to be early for the meeting. We all introduce ourselves to one another, and I can see that everyone is well spoken and competent. How refreshing to be around talented young people! The representative from LaSalle Agency arrives, and we all sign in and head upstairs. We're lead to the 7th floor, and then down a floor and another hallway to the meeting room. The Kaplan people appear friendly, funny, and smart, putting everybody at ease during the meeting. I'm surrounded by perfectionists, academics, and diversely intelligent kids my age. The company and the position being offered still seem too good to be true. The questions and answers are over pretty quickly (which is kind of disappointing, considering the relief the comfy swivel chairs have brought to my feet and legs). We all shake hands and wish each other luck. Another girl and I walk to the Clinton Blue Line together, she's the theater major from Skokie. I actually ended up pointing her in the right direction to meet the transfer for the red line, who knew that I could actually help somebody go the right way on the train? She gets off at State, so I pop my headphones in, turn my ipod on, and wait for Clark, people watching with ease now that the tensions of reaching a destination on time has diminished. Oh how I love the elevated stairways with escalators leading up to the green line platform (and so do my feet). I wait up on the platform, contemplating how much longer I can balance on my stilts, or whether I can make the looooong 5 blocks home from the train stop at Harlem. The smells of Mickey's Gyro and Ribs on Harlem Ave. are stronger than ever when you walk by there slow enough to realize how delicious it must be in there. 15 minutes after leaving the platform at Harlem I make it home, ripping off those red pumps the minute I walk into the kitchen. I wipe the cut out (yes, the cut is from the shoes) on my heel, and search for a band-aid in all of my empty duffel bags in the closet. I'm definitely hemming those damned dress pants, and never wearing shoes over an inch high (if I have to walk more than a block) ever again.