Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, teenage boys, wishing to test their masculine meddle and make that rite of passage from adolescence into young manhood–with fear and trembling in their cracking voices–used to petition young damsels to accompany them to an annual customary event known simply as The Prom.

Like the caveman’s quest for fire, getting a “date” to The Prom took on near-mythical connotations to some.  To others it became a topic of dread–as if the fate of the entire universe somehow hung in balance in the asking or not getting asked to The Prom.

As a male, I was of the privileged gender tasked with asking.  (I know; how antiquated?!?)  In a sense I was the Master of my own destiny–using Darwinian rules of natural selection to match traits with suitable, bi-lateral candidates while allowing stronger or weaker matches to filter past to other appropriate suitors within their socio-beauty strata.

Oh, who am I kidding? I had a girlfriend my senior year and was therefore required to take her AND we spent a total of twenty minutes at the actual Prom–thus nullifying most of the mystique of the invite/acceptance ritual.

But the past few months, as I’ve been spending hours and hours every day submitting job applications and resumes to potential employers, I’ve been thinking:  So this is what it feels like waiting to be asked to The Prom?

Yes, karma has a way of coming full circle on you.  In trying to land a great “beau-hunk” of a job, I am slowly coming unhinged, getting anorexic, watching more daytime television as I weep into my Monster.com online pillow.  No offense intended, ladies, but I’ve become a blushing, over-giggly, hyper-nervous mall-rat girl hovering over my inbox and dashing to tackle the phone every time it rings.

Everything regarding the big J-O-B has been magnified to elephantine proportions. I think melodramatic things like:  “If I don’t get a job soon, I know I’ll just die,” or…”If this interview goes bad I’ll never show my face in public again.”  A friend, who is also in a time of transition, joked with me recently about how he just doesn’t want to have to resort to waving a Little Ceasar’s sign on the curb in order to earn a living.  I agreed; but in the back of my mind I wondered, “Hmmm, how much can you make doing that?”

Searching for a job in a tough economy does this to you.  You begin to obsess.  Instead of stuffing my bra or adding extra eye makeup to catch the Man’s eye, I primp my job skills and judiciously embellish my career accomplishments–hopeful that my added flare will cause somebody (anybody?!?) to take notice. I flirt with keywords.  I create alluring profiles on Job Boards.

Do you think this cover letter makes me look fat?

Too desperate?

His qualifications aren’t much to look at, but he’s got such a great personality…

Probably the worst thing is that you realize after a while that you are working on a sliding scale.  The longer you have to wait to get ASKED to the dance, the lower your standards become.  In the beginning, you are highly selective.

“No, that job is a five-minute commute, scratch that one.”

“Making less than $100K / year?  Yeah right!”

But after a few weeks of very little callbacks or interviews, everything starts to look enticing.

“Well, the job is only two states away.  If I took a bottle of No-Doze I could probably make it home for a 4 a.m. breakfast before I had to turn around and drive back.  That’s doable…”

“Phlebotomist Trainee?  Sure, my journalism background would be a perfect fit for that kind of position…”

But ultimately, no matter how insane this whole process is making me, no matter how frustrating or damaging to the ego, regardless of the pounds I put on eating bon-bons as I text-message my friends with their handsome real jobs, I am still a romantic at heart.  I’ll impatiently wait for my Microsoft Knight in shining armor to come in and swoop me away, riding off into the sunset to some exotic cubicle.  I will not give up hope!  After all, I’m certain there is somebody out there that still needs a date for The Prom?

Anybody?

Bueller?

Bueller…