“Suddenly all the certainties she rested on — her 401(k), her house, her ability to navigate the professional world in a competent manner — seemed to be built on shifting sands” (Makers, 37).

What the hell am I doing here. I don’t belong here. Not the Radiohead song, but I might as well put these thoughts to music. I walk around trying to look as if I know what I’m doing, or at least trying to observe. It seems absurd, but it’s the only thing I know to do. And yet, it is so damn awkward. I know I am not the only one thinking this right now, but it doesn’t matter; I’m all alone in this room, and everyone’s eyes are on me.