one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong

Like many recent college grads who neglected to go straight to school and have no imminent plans to do so, I've been thinking a little too much lately about what in god's name I should do with myself. I took my current job partially because the alternative was unspeakable, and partially because I thought doing the last thing in the world I ever thought I'd do would be kind of amusing. I do, indeed, laugh to myself when I walk into the sea of blue shirts and ties at 7:30am. However, while I've actually learned quite a lot here--important skills like talking on two phones at once (still need to work on that one) and driving someone else's Benz through Midtown without hitting anything--and people seem to think I'd look good in (gooh!) a suit, I am not, and never will be, the corporate type. This is sad because, on the one hand, this job has some serious future earning potential, and having money is neat because I like to buy stuff and go to far away places, but, on the other hand, I don't give a rat's ass about finance, and I'm really bad at being fake-nice to coworkers and clients that I have no other reason to care about. (Also, I can write really long sentences of questionable grammatical accuracy.) Could there be a way to reconcile this problem? A way I could do this job well while enjoying it? The answer, surprisingly, is yes.

This weekend I may have stumbled upon the solution to my existential dilemma. On Saturday night I attended my alma mater's annual alumni crew banquet, located oh so inappropriately at the Princeton (*gagging on my plastic spoon*) Club. Note to Columbia: You're the second largest land-owner in NYC--get your own freakin' club! Anyway, there was of course an open bar, and due to the upsettingly low turnout, it was not at all difficult to maintain a nonstop influx of alcohol into my body, which was thirsty and dehydrated from the gallon or so of beer I drank the night before. I learned from this that, when drunk, I can schmooze like it's my job. Wait a second.....Eureka! Essentially, schmoozing IS my job. And hence, the answer: I need to be drunk at work.

At the banquet, for some reason I alone was appointed to sell raffle tickets to the attendees. Normally, this would scare the crap out of me, given my struggle with a moderate case of avoidant personality disorder (see below.) After a couple gin and tonics, however, I was able to chat up all these dudes that are probably quite rich and important. I especially won the favor of one of the richest and most important--his last name is all over the boathouse--when I mentioned I liked his pants, an excellent red and blue plaid, in case you were wondering.

If I could get drunk at work, I would no longer be the quiet girl in the corner who looks sad, reads blogs instead of talking to people, and wears weird things like Converse shoes and faded denim jackets with the requisite Theory pants. I would discuss the weather and baseball with the clients that call when my bosses are busy instead of putting them on hold. I would ask people about their jobs while looking genuinely interested in pursuing a similar path for myself thus displaying my deep interest in the company. I would bat my eyelashes at the traders to get a better price, and then my bosses would shower me with bonus money and make me a VP. And then soon I would get my own clients, get rich, quit, and open up a coffee shop/rock 'n roll bar/dog shelter that I would staff with cute boys so that I'd be free to travel the world and run around in the park whenever I wanted. Grad school schmad school. Getting drunk at work is the best plan ever.