If there’s one thing that two years of college have taught me, it’s that I have absolutely no idea what I want to be when I grow up.

    Like most students, I have had a multitude of glamorous and high profile jobs, including video store wench and library peon. Most recently, I worked the night shift at an insurance agency for a boss who repeatedly and often referred to me as "naughty intern," leading me to believe that he has some issues with a seasonal help fetish that I really don’t care to understand. Of course, this is the same boss whose vocabulary included such words as "jammin’," as in, "boy, we’re really jammin’ tonight!" He also had a clear mustache. He was not especially hip.

    These jobs were great and all, except the video store job, which pretty much bit major donkey heinie, but they definitely weren’t what I was looking for in life.

    I thought I’d be able to figure it out as I grew up. But my idea of the ideal job was constantly changing. For example, since the second grade, when I first discovered the cold hard truth that I would eventually have to do something more with my life than eat Spaghetti-O’s and watch "Mr. Belvedere," I have wanted to be a disc jockey, a veterinarian, an astronaut, the host of Jeopardy!, a princess, Velma from "Scooby Doo," and the lead singer of the Bangles.

    The definitive answer was supposed to come in the eighth grade, when Mrs. Meek, the freaky middle school guidance counselor, administered a job aptitude test on us all. This test said, without one iota of dissension, that my Gift, my Goal, my Purpose in Life, was to be an upholsterer. Honest to God. And while there is always a demand for finely upholstered furniture, I decided to let my skills as an expert upholsterer go undiscovered, mainly because to this day I can barely staple two pieces of felt together without the EMS getting involved.

    So, I have only two more years to determine my path in life. And since the odds are that no one will just walk up to me and say "Hey, I read you in the ‘Collegian,’ here’s a whole box of money," I’m going to have to get my act together.

    But I was watching the old show "Reasonable Doubts," starring my arch nemesis Mark Harmon (it’s too complicated to explain right now, but he sent me hate mail when I was in high school), when the perfect profession hit me:

    I could be a trophy wife.

    You know, the kind of wife that baseball players and important politicians have, that they can take to parties and show off and maybe even teach some tricks to, like how to tie cherry stems into knots with their tongues (I hear this is a highly coveted skill in the trophy wife market.)

    Now, I realize that trophy wives have one important feature which I lack— good looks. As you can clearly see from my picture, I look more like a middle aged man with a glandular disorder than, say, Ivana Trump. But this, like most things, can be easily remedied. Slap a wig on me, give me some liposuction, and turn me loose—if people begin to notice my homeliness, I’ll just sock them in the face with my Mr. T. punching puppet, and we will all laugh at my oh-so-witty repartee.

    I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just stick with my original plan, to be a world-famous novelist. I don’t have to wear a wig then, which is always a plus, and besides all that lipo can cost a lot of money (donations for this cause, by the way, can be sent to box 678.) I am, after all, my own woman, and don’t need to be anyone’s trophy.

    Unless, of course, you know any really good looking sports figures or politicos in need of an oh-so-witty date to a fancy schmancy party, especially if Mark Harmon is in attendance. I might be able to make some room in my social calendar.