Mastering the art of the career fair

While I can still remember my first Barbie, I'm not so sure if I want to remember my first career fair. There's no denying that it happened. I was definitely there, in the "why waste our endowment on air conditioning for our gym?" Dillon basketball court, sweating in an extremely unprofessional and, I'm willing to bet, unattractive manner as I attempted to ask questions that did not betray my entire lack of knowledge about the various elite and highly-competitive firms that make special trips to places like Princeton because they believe that we are, for some reason, special.

Last Friday, with my Z-Pack having yet to kick in, I was mostly worried that I would hack some special phlegm onto one of the reps from McKinsey. All I really wanted was to be curled up in a fetal position on my bed, secretly contemplating a future where some fabulously wealthy man would be crazy enough to want to marry and support me in the style to which I have not been accustomed. Instead, I had given into the guilt of seeing those around me print out their résumés on heavy, eggshell-colored paper and put them in snazzy binders to pass around like corporate candy. I think the last straw was finding out that even many of my sophomore friends were going.

"Are you networking?" a friend asked in a semi-whisper. I wanted to nod confidently, indicating that, of course I was doing just that. After all, I had always harbored a secret desire to have a collection of power suits. I just didn't know if there was anyone out there who would hire me to do something that involved seriously wearing one. And I also didn't really know what it meant to network. I had a vague idea that it involved charming the reps into accepting my hastily-thrown-together résumé and getting them to drool over it. Except most informed me that I needed to submit it via TigerTracks. Perhaps I can still turn those wasted heavy eggshell-paper résumés into some sort of fetching papier maché project.

To make matters worse, the fair was peppered with booths forcing one to start thinking about the inevitable conflict between altruism and capitalism: Princeton-in-Africa or JP Morgan? And were the people manning the Peace Corps booth staring down those Merrill Lynchers across the aisle or was that just me being paranoid? My career fair buddy was occupied in a slightly different manner. "Now, if I join the Peace Corps I can smoke," she mused. "But if I do Teach for America, I can't." I'm not sure about the soundness of her logic but I was impressed by her ability to think through matters so efficiently.

I returned my efforts to that mysterious networking thing and tried to chat normally with a youngish consulting firm rep but was so distracted by the inhuman amount of sweat I seemed to be producing that I had to apologize. "This is a great day for making first impressions!" I exclaimed, trying to get her to sympathize about the disgustingly humid weather.

"Oh don't worry, no one will remember you," she replied in a way that didn't exactly sound like friendly reassurance. I laughed nervously, not quite sure how to respond to this. "Trust me," she added.

She didn't look particularly trustworthy but, as I faced the sea of eager (and some not-so-eager) students, I couldn't help but agree with her. Which left me wondering, "What on earth am I doing here, wearing heels and a sweater set?" But I was there and I was wearing heels and a sweater set so I figured I should take advantage of looking — if not feeling — respectable and make off with all the free stuff being handed out. CIA pen and pin? Check. Confusing pseudo-Rubix cube from Microsoft? I just took a break from writing in order to play with it. But I came in a little late in the game and, I'm sad to say, missed out on both the Bloomberg T-shirt and the one-size-fits-"most" Abercrombie & Fitch College Tour 2005 T-shirt.

Don't say it. I recognize that this was not the most mature or professional way to deal with matters. I'd like to say that I've learned my lesson and have decided to eschew career fairs and devote myself selflessly to achieving world peace and reading great works of Russian literature in Russian. But I have a sneaking suspicion that, instead, I'll be there the next time one of these things rolls around. The only consolation is that at least I'll know to pre-game it. Cailey Hall is an English major from Los Angeles, Calif. She can be reached at schall@princeton.edu.