Nothing makes me feel more like a failed sexual predator than the interview process. I first discover this cute little business on Careernet, the Match.com of the desperate and jobless. Her description catches my eye with words like, “exciting,” “experienced,” and “willing to take any major” (you saucy minx, I know what that means). After exchanging a couple emails explicitly describing how my past experience has prepared me to fulfill her every need and each secret desire, she coyly holds off for a few days.

Do I call her? Did she forget about me? Am I not good enough? Once I begin to convince myself I never needed her in the first place, the cheeky dame offers to meet me somewhere — somewhere private.

Like a pick up artist readying to drop some of his target lady’s favorite movie quotes or band names, I prepare for our little rendezvous with late nights of internet stalking. As she is intriguingly without-Facebook, I am reduced to Googling her name, discovering that she has an intricate website complete with pictures and graphic descriptions of what she expects in an employee. I find out I need to be a passionate leader, not too forceful but not soft-spoken, ready to take on any challenge, and with at least one course in finance — she’s got a thing for numbers.

The morning of the big day, I strap myself into my flyest respiration-restricting skirt and a black pair of three-inch heels, because six feet of woman clearly isn’t intimidating enough. I spend hours on my physical appearance, because stacking five layers of concealer under my eyes will clearly help stack five digits of dollars in my bank account.

As she leads me down the winding hallway of 203 Barnes, my palms sweat, my tongue dries, and my mind races with the usual insecurities:

“Am I what she expected? Can she tell I really didn’t spend last summer breast-feeding orphans in San Jose? Dear God, I think I gleeked on her hand when I introduced myself.”

I breathe deeply and remind myself that I have to seem desirable, but slightly unavailable. Don’t let on that she’s my only option aside from that desperate start-up company in Nesbith who won’t take a hint.

I consider leaving my phone on so I can maintain my sought-after façade by constantly ignoring incoming calls. Then I remember I haven’t received a call since my mom demanded to know why I bursared $68 worth of VIBRTR at Gannett’s drug store. I turn my phone off.

The dimly lit room in the basement of Barnes contains a small table and two chairs. It’s private; it’s intimate; and I try to avoid acknowledging that my go-go-gadget-legs don’t fit under the table by twisting my body into sidesaddle position on the swivel chair. She spots my knees peeking over the table at her and knows, despite my contortionist efforts. I maintain eye contact to repress the urge to twirl in my swivel chair.

I am prepared to pump her full of gratuitous lies that make me seem offbeat and appealing. Lies like, “yes, my earrings are vintage,” and, “of course my marketing plan for a hangable dish-sponge was a hit,” or, “because I care deeply that our customer receives only the finest toilet-paper dispensers — I’m just that kind of girl.”

I will pretend to like babies, follow the Red Sox, and even betray any last floundering inch of moral fiber by laughing at her horrible, horrible pun, in pursuit of second base — the second round interview. I am confident that I’ll know when I have her in my grasp, and I’ll become ever more aloof, toying with her desire to see me around the water-cooler next year.

But then she attacks with confusing, unanswerable questions: “Will you graduate in May, 2009?” Just like it did at after-hours sophomore year, my game dries up and crumbles faster than Michael Jackson in sunlight.

It never fails. I walk into interviews looking as detached and cool as an American Apparel model (maybe two — or maybe just one that ate another one); but once I take the hot-seat, I devolve into this strange cross breed between cheerleader and sea lion, barking my responses in excitable tones, clapping my hands together in desperate attempt to incite an emotional response (laughter, camaraderie, pity?), and cheering praise of the super awesomeness of said company until beads of sweat drip down the high waist of my skirt, puddling into unusually-placed swamp ass.

In sweaty frenzies inspired by financial-based questioning, I usually tear a page from the Book of Palin and end my grammatically twisted verbal amble in a wink. It is as endearing as it is involuntary, and I’m pretty sure it would seal the deal if only I stopped using it in phone interviews.

After my vaudeville performance of song and mating-ritualistic dance, I all but tap-dance out the door.

I never thought that feeling of failure during lonely walks to North from unsuccessful frat parties would haunt my job-search. But, I’ve discovered that the guy who can hook up with any girl at the bar, but can’t convert his GPA into a fraction, will land a job at Microsoft. The girl who can take home a priest from Sunday Mass is the same girl who gets an I-banking job with a B.A. in Sociology and Flirtation. It’s partly about confidence, poise, and presentation. But it’s mostly about convincing someone that you are a really cool grown up.

The truth is, I’m not ready to be an adult, let alone a sophisticated one. When they ask me what I can contribute to the company, all I can think of is showing up to the office potluck with 15 quarter-cut Nutella sandwiches and three boxes of wine. I can’t describe myself in one word, unless it’s both hyphenated and a metaphor, like “hurricane-of-ambivalence.” I am a member of the Peace-Corps, Teach-for-America, grad-school nation, and as I haphazardly wave our bluish, reddish, yellowish flag of indecision, and I am more-or-less proud of it.

Shannan Scarselletta is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be contacted at sscarselletta@cornellsun.com. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Mondays this semester.