Do You by Any Chance Work in Finance?

Tonight, I put on my finest monkey suit and set off for the Cape, a pub over in the City of London, a.k.a. the financial district. Why would I do that to myself? Because it wouldn't be a Colgate study group without the requisite networking outlet, now would it? Colgate has a hard-on for students glad handing alums so the gravy train of Colgate money can keep on rolling, after all.

Name tag securely in place, I was primed for my own personal mission: staking out a husband. I had been warned that the event would be over populated by "hedge fund boys," and as I have oft been told that there is no shame in marrying for money, I was eager to meet these financial wizards and slip my hand in their pockets filled with gold. That, and as a person who has only recently begun consuming alcohol, I decided filling up on a deep sense of irony rather than beer was the only suitable way to stomach encounters with that many smug, rich assholes.

I arrived with a cluster of other study group students, and we stumbled awkwardly towards the pockets of alumni near the bar. Slowly, students began to break off and talk to the alumni. I didn't want to. For all my husband hunting, I just wanted to duck my head rather than introduce myself, confess to being an English major, and find out, that yes, the finely dressed person in front of me did have a lucrative career screwing over the rest of us. But with one or two other students beside me, I approached my first alum: Samantha, who worked on the New York Stock Exchange and had just moved to London a week ago. She was only a few years older than me, but already unrelatable. As she didn't appear to be a lesbian, she also was not the best choice for my future spouse.

Then, as I was pouring myself a glass of water, I got introduced to Tom. Rather than working in finance himself, Tom helped people who were interested in finding a career in finance transition into that field. Tom was older, a little on the chubby side, and very interested in my opinion of whether or not Colgate still felt like a boys club. Not really, I told him, keeping back the fact that it still often felt very much like a country club. We chatted for a while, until I only had ice and half of a sad lemon ring left in my glass. They had started to put some food out, and Tom said he hadn't meant to monopolize my time. So we went over to the food table and I snuck away.

It was a while before I met my future husband, Patrick. Patrick, the investment banker. Patrick, the guy who works for Goldman Sachs. Patrick, the epitome of everything I have never looked for in a man. Patrick hung around and chatted with a few of us for quite a while. Each time a new student approached, Patrick again and again was forced to acknowledge that he was, in fact, an investment banker.

"It's a bit like saying that you're a pedophile these days," he said.

My future husband works next door to St. Paul's cathedral, which also happens to be where the Occupy London camp is set up. The first week here, some friends and I had wandered by the Occupy camp. In fact, I have a copy of The Occupied Times somewhere in my flat. I didn't tell Patrick that. I know enough about charming men into letting me be their trophy wife not to mention my connections to their archenemies.

Patrick, genial Goldman Sachs employee that he is, was interested in our career goals. When I told him I was interested in being a comedy writer, (I know, not the best line to convince the guy to take me as his wife) his face morphed into one of mingled shock and amazement.

"Are you funny? Can you be funny on demand?"

"Uhhh, sorry," I replied. "I'm only funny on Tuesdays."

He pity laughed. "That was pretty funny." He didn't really think so.

Another student approached the group and asked Patrick what he did.

"I'm an investment banker." He paused and watched what I can only assume was yet another face falling in dismay. "Yeah, sorry."

"Do you always have to apologize to people when you tell them what you do now?" I asked.

"Yeah. Well, only to people who don't work in finance," he said.

Shortly thereafter Patrick bought a bottle of wine and offered some to us, a nice gesture perhaps or an indication that yes, he was, in fact, every ounce the investment banker he told us he was. As he poured a few glasses for some of the other students, the wine bottle seemed to gurgle, "He is rich. Buying wine for English majors... he pities you and your future careers in waitressing."

The evening whiled away, until we were finally free to button up our coats and venture back into the streets of London where the snow had again begun to fall. While the few alumni left at the pub went off to secure their cabs, I'm sure, I headed to the tube to catch a train back to the flat, curl up, and write "Mrs. Patrick, Class of '95" all over the pages of my English class notebooks.