“Describe yourself in one sentence or less.”
I stare blankly at the application prompt. How does one sum up thirty years of
life in a few short words? The
question rolls around in my head, clanging off my ready-made answers, prepared
for interviews and applications, trying to force a fit to no avail. “Looks like I’ll have to start from
scratch,” I think, frustrated with the prospect.
I struggle with the feelings I want to convey, with the “me”
I want to present. Syntax and
spaces sometimes say as much as the text. In my case, self confidence punctuated by dark periods of
loneliness and question marks of self-doubt.
Am I obligated to delve into the dark recess of my
personality? Need I divulge my
shortcomings?
My sense of entitlement is deeply embedded in my psyche, dispatching
disappointment and dissatisfaction, used as fuel to drive my ambition and my
sense of humor. I do distinguish my feelings in this instance from my peers,
however. I feel entitled to happiness, not gratification. I feel entitled to love, not lust or
pleasure. I feel entitled to
opportunity for achievement, not instant success. Is that what they want to hear? I stop myself. “I
better not be too personal.”
I am smart and educated, confident yet doubting, affable,
funny, entitled, tall…. the adjectives continue to tumble out of me like clowns
out of a car. This prompt can’t be
requesting a grocery list of identifiers.
No, this prompt requires more than a mere manifest of modifiers. It requires thought and syntax,
self-awareness and maybe even adverbs.
I try, therefore, to create an imperial sentence; the pauses festooned
with significance, the verbiage draped in import. I type furiously, my fingers a blur as they clack on the
computer keys. Then I stop to survey
my masterpiece.
“I…hate self-reflection.”
Eh, good enough.
