One of the worst parts about college are the required internships. If you’re an Econ major, you might be able to snag one that pays you $20K for two months of work. Or, if you’re like me, you end up having to pay summer tuition rates to be able to have an unpaid internship that takes up your entire summer. What a great system.
The internship was actually pretty amazing. I like to pretend it was my incredible legal skills and general charisma that landed me my spot, but I’m sure my mom being partner of the firm that hired me helped to push my application along. However, when I showed up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on the first day, I might as well have worn a hat that read “nepotism” in bold letters.
I was the only intern who was still in undergrad. Not only that, but as all the other interns announced which law school they were currently attending, they were all from Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and various impressive private schools. I felt like a red solo cup in a sea of crystal champagne flutes. And although none of them dared to say it out loud, they seemed a little unhappy to work along side the boss’ daughter who had underachieved her way into this position.
Half of my time was spent trying desperately to prove myself as a really great filer, and the other half was spent being an intern for the interns to try and get them to like me. I volunteered to make the coffee, clean out the fridge, and other tasks referred to as “bitch work” in an effort to prove that I wasn’t relying soley on my last name.
After a few weeks of grunt work, I had made a whole three friends. We ate lunch together every day and they would say things like “Yale isn’t all it’s cracked up to be” and “I know a guy who got a clerkship for the Supreme Court” and I told them how I get paid to write dick jokes for the internet. We all have our strengths. As we got to know each other a little bit, they began to joke about how I was someone who didn’t play by the rules. I took it as a compliment and wanted to prove them right.
One weekend (the only freedom we had during what was supposed to be our summer vacation), we decided to go see a baseball game. We were all a little over Hollywood by this point, and to be honest, you can’t beat getting drunk in the sun at Dodger’s stadium. A few margaritas deep and we were full swing (el oh el) into this game. We were catcalling the players, heckling the opposing team, and scarfing down hot dogs like it wasn’t bikini season.
After one of the girls bought a jersey, she asked me to take a picture of her for her Tinder profile picture. I, being the drunk yet amazing friend that I am, decided that she was too good for any old picture taken from the cheap seats. I grabbed her hand and dragged her towards the stairs.
She resisted when she saw I was walking to the entrance of the Diamond Club. A place I had only been once before, but I had vowed to return. The Diamond Club was the dugout seating, complete with buffet style complementary meal and drinks. Of course, you usually need very expensive tickets to enter. However, I have found that if you ever really want to be somewhere you’re not allowed to be, you should just, like, walk in. You know, like you’re supposed to be there. The trick is to look a little bored when you do.
I grabbed another hot dog (my third for the day) and stashed a few water bottles to bring back for the others I had left behind to watch the game like peasants. We made our way to *our* seats and waited. My friend couldn’t stop laughing and taking pictures. She couldn’t get over the fact that she had paid $20 to get snuck into the best seats in the house. But like I said, I was on a mission to get her that picture.
At the end of the inning (6th? 7th? They were beginning to blur together), as the players began to walk back into their dugout. I ran over to the small fencing divider, pushed my nonexistent boobs together, and slurred “hey! Do you want a hot dog?” while extending my half eaten hot dog out to them. Most of them looked annoyed, disgusted even, but one took the bait. Nailed it.
He refused my hot dog, but agreed to get a picture with my friend. He even went to get us two signed baseballs. I wish I remembered his name, because that would have made it a bit more special. But being baseball fan, I have slept my way to quite a bit of memorabilia. Most of all, I was happy to prove myself. When I had started my internship, I was looked at as the dumb blonde with nothing to add. But after the office had learned about what had happened, they had a new respect for me. Again, I was never ashamed of having fun at a party school or being “that girl,” but it felt damn good to show that I had strengths in different ways than they did. I may never get into an Ivy League school. But I can make some damn good memories with nothing more than a sense of adventure and a borderline unhealthy love for hot dogs..