Danielle Boone

Out into the wild frontier. Here I come, pushed from the nest that I grew to call my home, and the words on everyone's lips are, "You're going to be great. We wish you success. You're ready." And, I find myself just sitting there, at the end of the table with 32 eyes on me, choking on my words just wanting to scream, "STOP STARING AT ME!" Tears well up in my little eyes and I think to myself, "Today was not a good day to wear mascara." It was an awkward but necessary silence for everyone, and though brief, I couldn't help but feel it was more drawn out than it ought to have been.

I excused myself to the ladies room to cry some more. The door swung open and nearly knocked me flat, and as I squeezed my way in and peered into the looking glass, I couldn't recognize that red, wet, splotchy face looking back at me. I miss the days where it was impossible for me to cry, and now I feel like a total ninny. I tried desperately to dry my eyes but toilet paper was a poor solution, and the abrasive paper towels weren't any better.

I gripped both sides of the sink with my little fingers, looked hard into the mirror and in a voice just a bit louder than a whisper, said "Get a hold of yourself, you've got two more term sheets to finish before you can go home."

They showered me with gifts that are supposed to comfort me in my moments of nostalgia, sadness, and fear. I find it rather unfortunate that none of them were neither warm nor cuddly, but those are the kind of gifts you're given when you grow up, I suppose. No more teddy bears and rag dolls. I accepted them with gratitude and a smile, still terrified of failure.