I am a brand-name brat. I’ll admit it. When it came time to look for colleges junior year, I knew that I had exactly three criteria: small, private, in the northeast.
Not only did I think that these criteria would lead me to my dream education and job (let alone dream hubby), I thought that it was exactly what I wanted. I wanted a school that immediately got raised eyebrows and “wow she’s smart!” expressions when I said the name.
And on I went on my quest to get into my dream school. I wrote draft after draft of my entrance essays, perfected my SAT scores, secured the perfect recommendations, and continued all of my volunteer work throughout the whole process. I thought I had it down pat. I applied to nine schools — two of which I was rejected from, three of which I was wait-listed at, and four I just didn’t care about, even though I received acceptance letters to attend them. I had my heart set on attending one of my wait list schools. So I had alumni letters sent, calls made, and interviews set up. I didn’t know what to do. My boyfriend at the time had gotten in, and I knew his credentials only read “father is alumni who donates lots of money,” so I was a little more than bitter. That’s when I started to think that maybe it wasn’t the right place for me.
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