I was on my way to a job interview this morning. “How do I look?” I asked my husband.
“You look great,” he replied. Satisfied, I started to put on my coat.
“There’s just one thing,” he said. “There’s a hole in your shirt.”
“Where?” I asked, horrified.
“Under your left arm.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said. “Thanks for telling me. I have to go change.”
“Why?” he asked. “Just don’t lift your arm during the interview.”
This reminds me of the time, years ago, when my father asked my teenaged sister to iron him a shirt for work. When she was finished, he asked her why she had only ironed the front of the shirt.
“What’s the point?” she asked. “You’re going to wear a suit jacket on top of it.”
“But I might take the jacket off,” he responded.
“Well, don’t,” she said.
My father rolled his eyes and handed the shirt back to her to finish ironing.
After my interview today, my husband asked how it went. “It was going fine,” I said, “until the interviewer asked me if I could type with just my right hand since my left arm was paralyzed.”
“Maybe you should have changed your shirt,” my husband mused.
If only I had thought of that.
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