What if you chuck all of this monotony, the spreadsheets and the unbridled passionate dream of a bulging stock portfolio? That's right - just tear it all up and watch the pieces flutter down the Blue Ridge Parkway toward the smothering, ominous smog of a concrete skyline. Gas up your car, floor the pedal and hope the cloud of dust will cover your tracks and that old master life plan won't find you. Hide out on the other coast and frequent the 24-hour Paradise Diner off of Highway 1 where you live off of scrambled eggs and coconut cream pie. What would you do if you had absolutely nothing to lose?
After an unscientific and biased survey among friends, I've uncovered answers to professional bliss. Many students have khaki dreams and would enjoy frolicking with the antelope as a National Geographic photographer. Or, if you relish room service, mini bar macadamia nuts and a good night's rest, try your skills as a combo hotel/food critique. Who doesn't love a little indulgence?
Yet the most admirable desire in life fits both the adventurous and exceedingly opinionated personality - to kick back as a fishing guide who rates movies on the side. Two thumbs up.
Yet, here in our academic oasis, the aspiration to stand around in muddy water, reeling in a big one as you ponder the cinematic elements of "Office Space," just doesn't seem to cut it. Instead, there appears to be a golden ticket, an acceptance letter, that sends certain students scrambling down the street, their eyes glazed with future visions of chocolate rivers and little people fetching their staplers.
This clan inhabits the illustrious land of the Comm School, where they hope to successfully mature and then migrate to territories such as Morgan Stanley Dean Witter. Though I personally dropped calculus during high school and admit to knowing very little about the world of commerce, I find the Comm School wildly intriguing and its scholars' habits very impressive. Therefore do not consider this a mere uneducated speculation, but instead a keen nature observation that would be made by a crunchy Outward Bound leader (dream job number four).
It is apparent that right away Comm schoolers are molded like play dough for big city life. On certain mandatory business attire days, they swiftly glide among us, scraggily dressed students in spiffy business suits, the prize Christmas gifts from mom. In preparation for his presentation, I noted one devoted student pace outside the classroom, gesturing with a cigarette as he conversed with himself about bonds. Another opted for chaotic Clemons to chat on her cell phone, which created the conference call atmosphere.
Oh! See Jane. See Spot. See Jane explain to Spot how the gross margin surpassed the price earnings ratio of the fourth quarter! It all made me feel so guilty that I had skipped my psychology class again and was checking to see if party pics were up yet.
Then again, academic stress can lead to psychotic personality quirks. A case study of an anonymous fourth year reveals that he mangled his roommate's squash racquet against a brick wall after returning from a grueling midterm to discover his car had been towed. Furthermore, after hours working out various equations only comprehendible to their kind, Comm schoolers seem to suffer from the bulge eye look that resembles my dog during a thunderstorm. Not to fear, this is remedied by frequent trips to various watering holes, where they nourish for nocturnal activities with a little energy Red Bull cocktail.
However, there sadly is no remedy for a chronic case of the Fridays, which strikes recent Comm School graduates, whose weekends used to start on Thursdays. The worker bees' symptoms begin that first Friday morning when the alarm clock goes off at an ungodly hour. After excessive tremor, from hitting the coffee a little too hard, the worker bees will flee the microscopic cubicles and the looming city smog and fly back to their alma matter. There, they will take part in the revelry of their old hive and inconspicuously dance in the dark corners of fraternity house basements.
In the end, I'm sure I'll admire the beach houses of our future financial wizards. In my dreams, they wave to me from their palatial decks, as I bask in the glory as a respected beachcomber. Then, right before I wake up, I drift out West to spend some time with all my friends who became fishing guides. In our waders we sing that line from Janis Joplin's "Me and Bobby McGee": "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."
Nothing tugs at our lines, our noses peel from too much sun, and we are elated.
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