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.