Seminal Sartorial
I remember the first time I wore my Wharton hoodie, a grey cotton fur thing with a hard interior. The sleeves were a little too short, the material too thin, and the pocket strangely narrow. It was perfect. I thought to myself that what was next to that Penn Shield right there, that Gentium Book font "Wharton" logo was going to make. me. different.
Enter Locust Walk: look at me, look at me, I was a cool kid. I was a Penn Student, yes, but I was going to Huntsman. I walked around, waiting for people to notice me—maybe for them to explicitly not notice me. What I really wanted was the friendly shade: "Woah, are you in business?" I had my response all rehearsed, "It's just a hoodie. Chill," I said, my chest puffed out larger than usual.
Wearing that hoodie was permission. I'd hit the printing station with my $20 printing credit on color slides: 1 to a sheet, single-sided, because I can. I'd reserve a business study room just for myself, because why not. Haven't had breakfast yet? Grab an omelette from Bridge, twice as expensive and half as tasty as the one at Bui's because Wharton convenience, obviously.
Operations classes, accounting jargon, and finance models filled my Wharton-stamped mind. This was what it meant to make it. This is who I am now, I'd say to myself as I returned home past midnight with an empty mind and a stuffed bag. Printouts of spreadsheets and tedium commenced the night, accompanied by Canvas lecture recordings of things I slept through.
Three years have passed since then. I don't remember the last time I saw that hoodie. Besides, people in Huntsman wear Patagonias now.