there is a show on a&e every sunday night called intervention that james (hi james!), one of my former-work-b.f.f.s, got me addicted to. each episode of the documentary style reality show follows the lives of individuals who are losing the battle with their addiction, and whose friends and families feel the only remaining option is to hold an intervention. but the "protagonists" (or would druggies and alchies be antagonists?) don't know about the intervention until the end of the show. (makes you wonder if they just think that the tv cameras that are following them around are part of their hallucinations.)

given my experience watching the show and the knowledge base i acquired writing a thesis in college about mentally disturbed people and their drug and alcohol problems (surprisingly not a first hand account of my undergraduate freshman floor), i can only conclude that i must be on crack.

because i was called in for what is known as "intervention" here on monday by my accounting professor.

(way to go, deb. get your ass into a good school and blow it before real classes have even begun.)

and although i aim to break the stereotypes often prescribed to women in power (by degrading myself, objectifying good looking women, and making fun of cheerleaders), i cried.

twice.

my wonderfully kind professor assured me i would be fine but that i needed to raise my hand in class more. and when asked a question in class, answering with "i have no fucking clue" wasn't actually appropriate.

i suppose i should have anticipated it, but i feel really, really stupid here. i'm not talking about stupid-the-way- my-former-former-boss-made-me-feel stupid. i'm talking like stupid-try-holding- a-conversation-with-a-dual-PhD-navy-seal- fulbright-scholar stupid.

my dad says that's what i am (read: he is) paying for. had i known that, i would have happily taken a diamond tennis bracelet and a bwm and stuck with my low-lying, low-risk, low-profile (but high-shit-talking) job. seems like everyone would have been happier that way. including harvard.

i wonder if they are reallllllly going to regret taking a chance on this nonprofit-save-the-world kid. i think the business school would have been better off taking another investment banker or a twelfth peace corps volunteer.

they want me to whip out a balance sheet, an income statement, and distinguish the difference between financing a company with debt versus equity? think they'll take an update on angelina jolie or a synopsis of "so you think you can dance season two" instead? that i can do.

most importantly, my professor was intervening on my vocal self-deprecation: a talent i've come to hone over the last few years. since i couldn't tell him it was one of my few talents that i have been hoping to leverage into a book deal, i mentioned in passing that it had to do with some rough times i encountered as a professional. turns out that being in business is as much about knowing the answer as it is pretending like you do.

seems like that worked out well for enron, no?

so in the meantime, i promised my professor that i'd start talking and thinking about myself more positively. after a few days of thinking this through, here's what i've got: i may be dumb as rocks, but i can compete in the cleavage contest with the best of 'em.

and as far as i'm concerned, that's a pretty good start.

i think the intervention went well. the guys here certainly appear grateful.