More than anything, I remember laughing at them. While I, as a bright-eyed undergrad, woke up at 11 to enjoy my very liberal arts classes in everything from gerontology to the physics of music, the business students would trudge out the door in suits and ties. For class. In late-summer Philly humidity. Eighteen years old and already soulless pre-professional slaves.
Poor bastards, I thought.
Now that I’m in graduate school, two things keep the schadenfreude at bay as Wall Street drowns in its own excesses. One, karma’s a bitch. And two, as a soon-to-be planner, I’m quickly realizing I’ve become one of them.