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My drive — nine hours on the Pennsylvania Turnpike — to Notre Dame inspired some relief… and some fear. Even two years of university under my belt (and six times two years more of school otherwise) could not ameliorate any first day of school anxieties. Walking under the golden dome felt like exposing myself in the town square for a treasonous crime; pulling into the overflowing Lake Lot felt like walking up to the scaffold to pay for it.

While moving my things from my tiny white Ford Edge into my slightly less tiny single dorm room, my worst nightmares of the past summer came to pass:

“Hi Santiago! How was your summer? Did you do anything interesting?”

I respond carefully, as though not to reveal too much: “Not really, I was just at home working.” Here it comes…

“Was it an internship or…?” Their voice trails off. My hopes of avoiding the dreaded question were all in vain; at last, I had to wear my scarlet letter.

“No, just food running at a restaurant nearby, saving up some money.”

“Oh! That’s nice.”

Each new person, each acquaintance with whom I reconnected, promised another conversation that went more or less exactly like this; each one, a public humiliation ritual.

This common “oh!” wasn’t even filled with scorn or condescension. The acquaintances, on the contrary, perhaps even related a bit to my noble goal of pinching a penny here and there. The embarrassment, rather, was a delayed consequence of my lack of planning the year prior. In my defense, though, I applied for a few when I had the chance. In the spring of last year, I told myself that I would polish up my resume and work on connections.

I told myself, “I have so much reading to do, so many essays to write, but I can apply for some internships on weekends when I have a free moment from schoolwork.” Spoiler alert: those free moments never came. Or maybe they did come — either way, I didn’t take advantage of them. I did, however, sit in the student center Starbucks with my computer, tabs open to non-academic websites and a coffee covered in condensation… with my phone in front of me. I was shocked to find out, come May, that this isn’t considered “productivity.”

Let this serve as a cautionary tale for anybody whose moms have been calling them every other day with reminders to “get a jump on things.” Dear reader, I would highly discourage surfing the web during class instead of paying attention, but if you are (guilty!), then you clearly have enough free time to heed your parents’ advice. The word around the campfire is that companies start scouting for next summer right about now — but how would I know? I was working at a crab house!