Revision

Problem/Situation: I'm trying to make a good impression

First development: I'm running very late – resolved by my arrival
Second development: I am too tired to be very present in the conversation – resolved by our discussion of Waffle House, and by my going to sleep

Resolution: I fail to make a good impression

I am running desperately late to dinner – five hours late, in fact. I've been re-routed twice, and so I am arriving at 12:30 AM, rather than 5:30 PM, as I promised the woman I'm meeting.

For the fourth time in six weeks, I'm on my way to the home of a stranger named Jessica, my overnight bag in the trunk of their car. This time, I'm in Atlanta, my winter coat bundled under my arm, the windows of the car rolled all the way down because the night breeze negates the need for air conditioning. I'm in the back seat next my host. Driving tonight is her roommate's boyfriend, a burly type who is currently speaking loudly over the noise of the highway at night. We've already exhausted the topic of how tired I am after my travels (very), and how frustrated I am that I'm getting in late (not very). The boy driving the car has already asked me "does poor dear need food? Alcohol?" and, even though the only food I've eaten since this morning is the cheese and crackers snack I bought on the plane, even though we're driving past multiple 24-hour restaurants, I say no.

I'm not here for a romantic entanglement, but it might as well be one. After a good night's sleep, my time in Atlanta will be spent going through essentially the same motions I did in Lexington, Kentucky and Oxford, Ohio: I will butter up to this girl, asking questions about her life and her interests, for the rest of the night. In the morning, we will head downtown, where I will spend the day in thirty-minute sessions with a number of different people, again painting myself in the most attractive light possible, conscious of my body and whether the way I'm holding myself conveys enough interest in the people I'm talking to, asking insightful questions that display a sense of familiarity with the work of the people in question. We will eat together, laugh together, and spend the better part of the day trying to impress each other. I'm pitching myself to them; they are trying to sell me on their program. It's important to like and be liked, here: if everything goes well, these people will be key players in the next five-to-seven years of my life.

I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open, and an even harder time following the way that the conversation ebbs and flows around me. The boyfriend – I can't remember his name even though I was introduced to him not fifteen minutes ago, and I’m too embarrassed to ask for a repeat – cracks a bad joke, and I spend the next five minutes fighting through the haze of travel in my brain to try and remember a favorite joke to share, in turn. A question directed at me jolts me out of my reflection.

"You're from Michigan, right? Do you even know what Waffle House is?"

And here's my in. These meetups, if you can call them that, are all about talking up my own best attributes. Most of the time, this means discussing my research experience and interests, but I like finding points of connection outside of that – with the first person I spent the night with, I connected through music taste. The fact that, despite my best efforts, I couldn't really find anything with the second just made it really clear to me how important it is to find similarities outside of academics, which led to my desperate leap toward connecting with the third over our first late-in-life experiences driving in winter weather.

"I actually grew up in Kentucky," I tell him. "Waffle House is totally my jam." And the four of us – the girl I'm staying with, her roommate, and the boyfriend – lapse into a very intense discussion about how each Waffle House has its own personality, to the point where one is almost a completely different restaurant from the next. I mention my personal favorite in my hometown, where the employees bring in tomatoes from their gardens in the summer and the late-night waitress uses the singular noun "honey" as a plural to address groups of people. I also bring up my least favorite location, where I am consistently neglected by the waitresses no matter when I go and where, once, a cockroach fell from a light fixture into my cup of water.

Atlanta is the promised land of Waffle Houses – I count six on my way from the airport to their house, each one associated with a detailed story that I listen to avidly and, regrettably, forget as soon as we hit the next one. Still, by the time we finally get home, I know which ones to avoid and which ones to seek out, and when each one experiences its morning rush.

I could be interviewing for any type of job, or preparing for any type of informal dating: hooking up, bind date, speed dating. The fact that I'm waiting to interview for a clinical psych PhD program is almost unimportant to me right now. I'm still sitting in the backseat of this car, struggling to keep my eyes open. I still can't remember the joke that I want to tell. When we get to Jessica's house, I crawl into bed and fall immediately asleep.

I'm half in love with the program well before lunch the next day, enough that when I am eventually put on the alternates list, and ultimately fail to be offered admission, I still plan on re-applying.

I remember the joke halfway through an interview with the head of the program the next day, and have to hide a smile. Discussing the importance of a diverse population base for both research and for clinical practica is not the time to tell someone that the Revolutionary War general told the cowardly private, "Chicken, catch a Tory."