When it comes to my peers, I am always the one playing catch up. They’re more… how do I put this… developed. They own more than two bras and maybe have a cheese grater in their kitchen drawers. I wear the same bra every day and still live in a dorm room. There’s no competition. I just watch them from the sidelines, occasionally asking annoying questions about what womanhood is like, to which they reply: “One day, you’ll understand.”
It’s not like I haven’t been desperate to develop. I’ve always wanted to leave my girl-status behind and go all Shania Twain singing Man! I Feel Like a Woman. But the fact of the matter is that, for a long time, maturity hadn’t quite hit me. As much as I craved to learn the secret to being a badass lady-chick, I was just a late bloomer. I was trapped in the realm of the training bra. Pity me.
When I would admit my late blossoming to people, they would often gasp, saying things like, “Wow…I mean… getting ‘it’ at 20 years old is like really late, right?” I would nod my head and mumble “Uh huh,” as if I didn’t already know how stunted I was, as a woman. Even my mom was perplexed.
Then one day, it happened.
I was walking down Angell Street and I just knew, like a sixth sense: I told myself, this is your time—you’re a fucking woman now goddamn it. I exhaled sharply, turned left, and stared onwards into my future.
Yes, I am proud to announce that on September 27th the world of womanhood slapped me in the face and I got it: the drive to get an internship.
I was finally losing my CareerLAB virginity and it was honestly kinda hot. Just kidding, it was cold, like, freezing cold.
As I fumbled to hand my ID over to be checked-in at the front desk, I stared at all the students buzzing about the room—no doubt freshman trying to get investment banking internships so they could all eat Sweetgreen during their lunchbreaks while using their $20 bills as a napkins and snorting cocaine off their calculators, but what did I know? My brain was spiraling.
I suddenly felt like I was from another planet; a planet filled with other unemployables like me, non-STEM/Econ concentrators who had spent their past summers being camp counselors *cringe* and spending time with families *barf.* In the “real world,” we were toast—and not even the avocado kind. My only quantitative/analytical skill was counting the goosebumps of fear on my arm and even that was hard. The nervous twitches ensued.
I waited, just like I had for the first 20 years of my life, and then heard, “Next!” This lovely CareerLAB peer counselor was walking towards me and I panicked, envisioning her five-karat resume and impressive interpersonal skills. I thought to myself, what would a human say next? “Hi!” I don’t own a real blazer. “I’m Caroline.” Not even real pants. “Nice to meet you.” But I am proficient in Excel!!!
She was my user into the theater of womanhood; I would have taken her by the hand if that wouldn’t have been weird. Instead, I sat in awe of her college seniority. She had the je ne sais quoi of woman that tucks her shirt into her pants and puts her house keys in a designated key tray. I stuttered through my tales of past employment and shakily pointed to a Word doc that said Concentration: English, half expecting her to throw my laptop against a wall and tell me my diploma’s was only worth a Nesquik chocolate milk ($1.52). But to my surprise, she smiled. This wise gal wasn’t going to smite me. In fact, she was (or feigned being) impressed.
With this spiritual awakening to the world of applying to jobs, I finally feel like a woman (pronounced with emphasis to be woMUN—thus eliminating the word man *whoops*). This newfound drive to get my sh*t together has given me the confidence to purchase another bra and maybe even a cheese grater, despite not having a kitchen, because HEY– I deserve it.
Shout-out to my mother who can now brag to the other moms that she has a daughter with a CareerLAB approved résumé.
Image via Sarah Clapp