It was a pre-interview morning like any other: Starbucks, breakfast, shower, study. I squeezed myself into my interview skirt and tucked in my white blouse with the black buttons. Forgetting to put on a tank top underneath the slightly see-through blouse, I pulled on a sweater instead; I was too lazy to undress and redress.
I arrived at my interview and timidly walked in to a tiny office with a staff all in one room; they all turned to look at me when I opened the door. My interviewer’s male secretary stood up to escort me the four feet from the front door to one of only three private offices. I fidgeted, standing outside my interviewer’s office door waiting for him to finish a phone call. When we finally sat down together, I was surprisingly calm. My nerves usually get the best of me in the form of sweating through my clothes, talking in circles, and continually crossing and uncrossing my legs. The conversation was a nice balance of qualification questions and small talk; he was easy to get along with.
He wanted me to meet the two other men with private offices, so he stood up to walk me over and introduce me. Just before he reached his door, he pointed at my shirt and said, “You may want to take care of that before we walk out.” I looked down to discover that three buttons on my cheap Forever 21 blouse had popped open, exposing my black lacy Victoria Secret bra and most, if not all, of my cleavage.
“Oh my G…how long has it been like that!”
“I don’t know. Ten or fifteen minutes?”
“What! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to embarrass you or distract you. But I thought you should know. If I didn’t tell you, the guy you’re about to meet with would have.”
My face was on fire with shame and cheeks in pain from laughing so hard. He kept assuring me it was no big deal and asked if I needed a minute to compose myself. Infected with a serious case of the embarrassed giggles, I re-buttoned my blouse and then did up my one-size-too-small-never-supposed-to-be-buttoned-sweater all the way to ensure this would not happen in the next two offices. My interviewer sat back down and began asking me questions which I can only assume was to distract me and calm me down.
“So, where do you like to hang out on the weekends?”
Okay. Now that I’ve exposed myself to you, you are curious where I spend my free time? Bad timing.
I got home and immediately called my dad to tell him the story; we share a sick sense of humor.
“Did you do it on purpose?”
“What! No, dad, I did not flash my interviewer on purpose. I was not trying to seduce him. My blouse popped open.”
“Well…if you got it, flaunt it.”