She holds your resume with the tips of her fingers. Nights of late studying, long hours of cubicle isolation, years of relentless determination, moments of extreme stress and anxiety – essentially your life of the past four years dangles precariously between her thumb and forefinger.

She flits the paper around as she fumbles through her files.

You catch sight of your home address as it flies past your nose and you find yourself hoping she would just . hand . that . back.

She skims over every third line of your carefully worded credentials. She browses through your recommendations as if window shopping for a third cousin’s second husband’s birthday gift. She asks you standard interview questions, forgets your answers and asks you them again.

You respond with quality, clarity and confidence. Both times.

Growing uncomfortable and perturbed, you want to remind the woman that this is your life, that you are here to learn, to grow, to assist her company, and that your name is not Molly.

Earlier that morning, you had thought you were pretty good.

Freshly ironed business skirt, leather business handbag, stylish business shoes – heeled, pointy and screaming Sex and the City.

Hell, you were good.

You smiled to yourself as you made your way to the bus stop. Today, the job interview. Tomorrow, you would be running the company. Just watch, you had said.

You go to Georgetown. In all honesty, you had been ready for this day since Orientation Week freshman year. Destiny is now within reach and you intended to scoop it up with both hands. The shoes pinched a bit, but you contorted your grimace of pain into a promotion-deserving smile.

Standing at the bus stop, the butterflies refused to settle.

Nonchalantly, you checked your hair in the window of a parked car. A sophisticated businesswoman, with hair in place, smiled back at you through the reflection. An immature school boy stuck his tongue out from behind your reflection. Too excited to be bothered, you turned and hurried onto the bus.

After selecting a seat among your fellow commuters, you took out a book because, well, that’s what professionals who ride public transportation do on the way to work.

Outside, slow, tired people were driving slow, tired cars. They sipped coffee, wiped the sleep from their eyes and laid on the horn to move along traffic, each truly believing that if he contributed a loud, obnoxious noise to all of the other loud, obnoxious noises, everybody would somehow move faster.

Later, you settled yourself among hundreds of yawning businessmen and women aboard the Metro, all unmistakably ready to seize the day. You fidgeted, shifting your bag from shoulder to shoulder, anxious to get on with the day ahead, excited and ready.

Another 15-minute bus ride and a short walk later, you found yourself gawking at the architectural feat, the Emerald City, that could potentially be your place of employment this fall.

Slightly intimidated, but all the more determined, you pulled open the heavy glass doors to the lobby and an elevator escorted you to the appropriate floor.

The receptionist smiled widely as you walked in. She paged the Human Resources manager and asked you to have a seat while you waited. You perched on the edge of a plush couch and soaked in the environment. Your heart was pumping. The adrenaline rush set your feet tapping. You couldn’t wait for the meeting.

The Human Resources manager did not come to greet you for 30 minutes. But, you stayed occupied, absorbing the office atmosphere.

She had misplaced your resume. But you carried a copy in your portfolio.

She couldn’t remember if it was Georgetown or George Washington. But you politely reminded her.

She looked at your resume. But what she absorbed was indiscernible.

We’ll get back to you, she said. But no one did.

An hour and 15-minute commute. A 30-minute wait. A less than 15-minute conversation. And then home to muster the strength and fortitude to try again next week.

An appeal to all Georgetown students – be it two or 20 years from now, be you a CEO of a national corporation, the head of your own medicinal practice or a renowned political leader: Be respectful and courteous to all people you meet along the way. Don’t forget that you, too, were once just a kid trying to get a job.

Polly Burokas is a senior in the College and can be reached at Focus With Burokas appears every other Friday.

Have a reaction to this article? Write a letter to the editor.

Comments are closed.