interviews are the first dates of the workforce. the cuticle tearing nerves, the rehearsal of strengths (superior organizational skills) and weaknesses (chocolate and books), agonizing over the wardrobe and finally selecting something from the crushed and over stuffed 'barely ever worn' end near the wall. on a side note, i would be a terrible drug rep due to the amount of time spent commuting to and from the dry cleaners for the ann taylor/banana republic uniform of the pharmaceutical goddess.
seeing your date/interviewer walking towards you generally coincides with the realization that your cuticles are bleeding, and the the new outbreak of ringworm is in the middle of your "hello, pleased to meet you" shaking hand.
and then the lying begins. "yes, i left my last position because i was seeking more challenging opportunities" (I was sick to death of being in something that resembled a domestic violence relationship with my former employer), "NASCAR? i never miss an event, it's like going to church, oh, youre an atheist?" the desperate need to be liked and impress, to hide and cover up, and much of the time you don't know if you even want a job or kiss at the end of your performance, but at least they could try to grope you in the car or schedule a second interview. the charade is over in 45 minutes or dinner and a movie; once you secure the title of star employee or girlfriend, the cargo pants and flip flops become mon-fri work attire and the bathroom door is left open no matter what you're doing in there.