It seems as if the current buzz on campus suggests that job or graduate school interviews are the "in thing" right now. Not wanting to feel left out, this past weekend, I too decided to buy a cheap suit and hop on a flight to New York in order to try my hand at entering the real world.
Despite what the lady at the Career Center had advised me, it didn't bother me that I had no actual "scheduled interviews" lined up, per se. If there is one thing that Psych 92 has taught me this semester, it's that showing up is 95 percent of the grade anyway.
When I arrived on the streets of the Big Apple, I was ready for opportunity to jump out and slap me in the face. Lo and behold, after only a couple hours of browsing for the right fit, I found myself sitting in the lobby of Rich and Barb's Podiatric Clinic (the only place where "Our Biggest Feats Are Your Happy Feet").
As I continued to wait patiently for my name to be called, I began to notice a bizarre breeze whenever someone walked past. Curious, I posed the question to the other seven or eight people in the waiting room, "Does anyone else feel a draft in here?"
But no one answered. Everyone's attention was vigilantly set on a fixed object in the room. an object that seemed to be located somewhere between my legs. I looked down and gasped. Looking back at me was none other than my lucky Superman underpants.
Somehow the fine polyester stitching of my newly purchased suit had given out in the lower pelvic area, leaving a wide-open window to the world for Superman. Knowing that my name could be called for the next interview at any moment, I had to act fast. I got out of my seat and made my way to the men's room walking swiftly, yet carefully enough to ensure that the cow did not slip out of the open barn door.
When I got to the bathroom, my mind was racing with ideas to quickly correct my wardrobe malfunction. I didn't have time to panic. I swung my briefcase onto the counter top and flipped it open to examine exactly what supplies I had to work with. The only thing in there was a freshly made pastrami sandwich.
Bingo.
I didn't have time to question where the sandwich had come from. After a brief pause to consider all my options, I broke the sandwich in half and ate one part of it (I don't think well on an empty stomach). By the time I was finished, I knew exactly what to do.
As I walked out of the rest room, I instantly felt the eyes of those in the waiting room reattach themselves to me. But this time they weren't staring at my underwear. Instead, everyone seemed perplexed by the combination of balsamic mustard, mayonnaise, red onions and, yes, even a kosher dill pickle that was smeared all the way down my face and the front of my shirt.
At that precise moment, the receptionist called my name, and I headed to the back room to meet my interviewers. Though it was never brought up, I don't think any of them ever noticed the hole in my pants.
They say a classroom education can hardly compare to the education you'll get the second you step foot on the streets. I now know this to be true. Did I get the job at the podiatric clinic? Irrelevant. Did I ever get those stains out of my new suit? Irrelevant. Did I learn how to stay optimistic in the face of an apparent crisis? Absolutely.
So the next time you find yourself feeling down and fresh out of places to turn, never overlook the healing power of a simple pastrami sandwich.
Nick Alexander is a Pratt junior. His column runs every other Friday.
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