Career Services sucks. Just go to the airport instead
By Georgia Pullis
As I sit in the airport, patiently awaiting my flight to Chicago, I cannot help but glance at the multitude of people around me. People watching at the airport has always been a favorite pastime of mine and LaGuardia never disappoints; however, today I was sent to a classier, clean-smelling corridor ominously titled “Terminal A”. This small section of the never-ending LaGuardia nightmare was a pleasant surprise when I realized it was decked out with lounge-style leather chairs and endless outlet stations to provide comfort for even the wealthiest of fliers. I pondered purchasing a pre-flight first course, only to be chilled when I see that the average price of their high-class meals are way out of my price range. And suddenly, as I am no longer awestruck with the brilliance of LaGuardia’s secret hospitality, I realize that I have no place being here.
With my cracked IPhone 4 sitting next to me, proudly sporting my favorite hamburger shirt, I counted the briefcases resting next to their ambitious owners: at least twenty, maybe more. To my left I spy a beautiful Michael Kors handbag, and to my right, a pompous pair of Louis Vuitton pumps. People like this, successful adults let’s call them, tend to keep to themselves in public situations. “No need to talk to that dirty college student over there, huh Norma.” “No Frank, we are far too prosperous to be conversing with a peasant. Hahahaha.” Although, sometimes I’m thankful for this ‘polite’ ignorance simply because they’re right! I live in a different world.
College is a world of wonder, where your future is supposed to be laid out like the yellow brick road in front of you. We are destined for greatness they say, but hell… I’m not sure if I can pave the way to the rest of my life right now. How did these people do it? What bridges the gap from being a poor college student to successful?
When I look at the business women around me, I KNOW I could never do that. Endless power point presentations? Trying to hide your leg sweat from seeping through your tight knee length skirts? Not for me. Plus, their clever financial schemes and brutal confrontation are more than I could handle. As I look at each woman, furiously noting something on a laptop, I can see I am not cut out for that cutthroat lifestyle, even if it means I will never get the chance to own designer heels.
Now, my eyes fall on a woman sitting across the way. She wears a black shirt with black knee high socks and jean shorts that let the tattooed word “divine” peak out from underneath. In her bag, I see she is carrying a portfolio, several drawings and what looks to be a set of charcoal pencils: the makings of an artist. “That’s so cool!” I think to myself, “She’s going after a dream.” I’ve always wanted to be courageous enough to follow my heart and pretend that money doesn’t matter. But when I look at her droopy eyes and tired lips, it’s clear that the struggle of doing what you love is tough. I suppose most people don’t go to college to do what they love. We come here to learn to love what we do.
So what can I learn to love? I’m not quick-witted enough to be a lawyer, not intelligent enough to be an engineer, and definitely too squeamish to be a doctor. As I listen to the woman behind me detailing to her cellphone how angry she is that she’s had to work overtime the past few weeks, I’m not sure I want to have a big girl job at all!
Perhaps my perception is solely based on my juvenile fear of entering into the real world. This fear, it rolls and crashes like the waves of the sea, only disintegrating into little foamy bubbles for a moment before coming back for more. My free-time is often overcome with thoughts of “what kind of job should I have in ten years,” or “hopefully I even have a job in ten years,” and “is the rest of life as hard as buying groceries?” but, nevertheless, answers can unexpectedly present themselves.
“Flight 2459 to Chicago…Now boarding.” As I grab my bags and head to my plane, I think, “Hmmm, maybe I’ll be a pilot!”