I became an old "person." I can hear the Old Woman's voice spilling out of me.
Yesterday, a young graphic design student visited our offices, hoping to find work. He didn't make a positive impression from the get go . . . skinny jeans worn well below the curve of the butt. I sure hope he was wearing underpants, because I'll just have to burn our couch if I learn he wasn't. He didn't exactly sell himself. Rather, he seemed to be under the impression that his mere presence would be all we needed to understand his deep artistic vision and the privilege of his willingness to piddle around with the "art stuff" in return for lots of money. He didn't bring a portfolio or even offer sites online where we could get a sampling of his work.
While asking him about his course load, he started whining about how unhappy he was that he was being forced (by the man) to take an art history class, and he hates art history. He doesn't like to have to look at paintings and see the subtle details. Hell, he doesn't even like it when he has to write about his own works in art classes.
And, it bubbled right out of me. . . the backhand of reality. In the real world, Lovey, your days are going to be filled with little details and piles of crapola you aren't going to like . . . but you'll have to do. If you blow off half the class meetings and then glare unhappily at the professor for those you do deign to attend . . . it says way more about your character than it does the ridiculousness of the requirement. And, frankly, we don't pay people to pout and whine.
I might have even told him to stand up straight and pull up his pants, too.