Figuring it out

I am starting to believe that the universe is conspiring against me. But in a good way.

It is almost as if despite my best efforts to dig myself into a bitter little rut, the universe is hell-bent on throwing me a bone.

At present, BEB is working interstate. Before I can move to be with him, BEB needs to find us a place to rent (I cannot, nay WILL not, stay at his parents' house, retirement village amenities notwithstanding). Correspondingly, I need to snag a job as good, if not better, than the one I currently have.

A few weeks ago I stumbled upon a job vacancy that seemed to tick all the boxes. Same industry. Government department. City location. In fact, the position description made the job sound as though it was right up my alley. The salary on offer was also surprisingly good, which made my neuroses switch into overdrive.
I wouldn't have enough experience.
My previous roles were too junior.

I was fairly confident that they would read my job application, thank me for my interest, and bid me farewell.

But that didn't happen.

So a week later (at which time I was still in the midst of Pristiq withdrawals), I fronted up to a the job interview.

The panel of three interviewers grilled me.

This question is in two parts.
Provide a recent example.
Can you expand on that answer more specifically?

So I smiled, and I laughed, and I self-deprecated. And they laughed, although they tried not to.

And I looked pretty, spoke clearly and was polite and receptive to their cues.
I was the ideal interviewee.
And I was exhausted.

As the interview was nearing an end, the words "mathematical formulae" were uttered by my primary interviewer.
As in a question.
As in the question "Are you comfortable applying complex mathematical formulae?"

The words "mathematical formulae" are to me what "pro choice" is to the Pope.
They strike terror in my heart and make me nauseous with dread.

I cannot do maths. And by maths, I mean basic addition and subtraction. I have snowball's chance in hell of figuring out "mathematical formulae".

The blame for this ineptitude lies squarely with my year nine maths teacher. A barely functioning alcoholic, his breath had the potency of OP rum. Whenever he spoke, the fumes of the beverage he had last consumed would spill forth.

The logical way of avoiding inhaling these odours was to ensure he opened his mouth as little as possible. The best way to do this, was to not ask him any questions.

So when I didn't understand algebra, I said nothing.
And when I couldn't calculate a percentage, I said nothing.

This continued for nine long months, by which time my mathematical skills were so abysmal, it was a miracle that I could even tell the time. In a period of one year, under Drunko the Disorderly my maths teacher, my marks had gone from an A- to a D+.

The next year, I was at a different school where the mathematical skills required extended only to determining the best ratio of bourbon to coke. And all other skills I possessed were being used to ensure my survival outside of the classroom, as opposed to my success in it.

By year eleven my maths skills were non-existent. Fortunately this was also the year in which maths classes at my school were no longer compulsory.

So I threw off the shackles of my mathematical dyslexia and marched forward into a maths-free world. I was ecstatic.

And now it had come back to haunt me.

But instead of lying about my mathematical abilities to my potential employer, I told the truth. I said that I possessed no mathematical or statistical training or inclination whatsoever.

I didn't do this because I am fundamentally an honest person.
Rather, I did this because I know my limits.
Words can be bullshitted. Numbers cannot.

I walked out of the interview terrified that they would offer me the job. I was convinced that they had mistaken my articulate nature as being generally intelligent, meaning that they would make the inaccurate assumption that I would be smart enough to figure out figures.

That night, BEB tried to teach me how to calculate a percentage of a number. I got it wrong. Repeatedly.

Then on Friday I got the call I had been dreading.

You are the successful applicant.

The first words out of my mouth were "Wow. I wasn't expecting that."
It was, again, the truth.

I ended up accepting the position. The universe had given me this opportunity for a reason. Maybe the reason was so that I could live in the same state as my husband again. Maybe the reason was so that I could challenge myself and expand my horizons. Or maybe it was just so I could get some experience and find something less numerical later down the track.

I start my new job in four weeks.
Which I think equals 28 days...but I may have to check that.

The Village People

A lot of change is taking place in my life at the moment.

In the past two weeks, the following developments have occurred:

1. We sold our house; and 
2. BEB got a job interstate.

This means that in the coming weeks/months, BEB and I will be living in different states, until either:

1. BEB finds us a place to live in Melbourne; or 
2. I get a job in Melbourne. 

The job BEB has landed sounds exciting and offers opportunities for the future. It has the right mix of being familiar enough for him to feel comfortable in the position, but is coupled with the chance to develop further skills and experience. It seems to tick all the boxes. I am excited for BEB. 

BEB meanwhile has to live with his parents at their retirement village until we find a place to live. It’s not as bad as it sounds - access to a pool, a gym, daily activities, happy hour, plus all those doting old ladies who will fuss over him. I will be lucky if BEB ever wants to leave.

The retirement village where BEB’s parents live is like Club Med for the mature-aged. According to its website, the Villlage offers residents a choice of two and three bedroom villas and condominium. It also has:

• A Community Centre
  
• Extensive library
  
• Lounge areas
  
• Hairdressing, masseur and podiatry services
  
• Billiard table
  
• Grand piano
  
• Landscaped courtyard; and
  
• 24-hour emergency call buttons

My grandparents live in a five bedroom house in what could accurately be described as an “undesirable” area of Brisbane’s far-eastern suburbs. Their home offers:

• A frighteningly large amount of clutter 
• Dust coverage that could suffocate a small child
  
• An abundance of cat hair, care of their daughter’s feline companion
  
• Tripping hazards in the form of rugs and phone cords (and their daughter’s feline companion)
  
• An extensive range of pest droppings in kitchen cupboards, including those from mice and cockroaches; and
  
• Fort Knox quality security grilles to prevent the booming criminal community from gaining access to the residence. These grilles also prevent escape from said residence, particularly in the event of fire.

I have seen the oldies that buzz about BEB’s parents’ thriving little Village community. They listen to the cricket on the radio while tending to the co-op garden, they share a few drinks at happy hour every Friday night, and they have barbecues by the bowling green on Sundays. And although their bodies may have weakened, their lust for life has not.

At happy hour a few years ago I asked one of the Village people, Joy, to give me the dirt on what really goes on at the Village. Joy gestured to a sweet old woman, easily in her seventies, seated behind me. I turned around and smiled at her. She smiled back. Joy said her name was Margie.  Joy then waved at an elderly gentleman, dressed smartly in pressed trousers and a checked button-up shirt. Joy called him Pat.

Joy then explained to me Margie and Pat had made a “scene” at last year’s Christmas party, when Margie “went underneath” Pat’s table. The worst part, Joy explained, was when Margie hurt her back trying to get out from underneath the table. Some of the staff at the village had to stretcher Margie back to her villa.

I then forced Joy to repeat all of this to BEB so that I would have a corroborating witness in the event of no one believing this scandal. I would later ask Joy how long the waiting list was to move into the Village, and if BEB and I could move in now.

I was in love with the Village.

It is my greatest wish for my grandparents to be convinced to move somewhere like the Village. My grandmother doesn’t know where (or who) she is anyway, so she wouldn’t put up a fight. But my grandad is stubborn and has emphatically told me that the next place he is moving to will be a coffin.

So, for now, I will continue to help them in their own home. And I will tell myself that I have done my best for them.

I just hope I can start believing this before my Grandad makes his next move.