52.

Stanford

For many this is not a new story, but I’m going to tell it again because I am nowhere near tired of it.

I was an unimpressive student in high school, average to the point of academically invisible. I focused my energy much more intently on sports, though I was also a very unimpressive athlete. When it came time to apply to colleges, I had big dreams—dreams that far surpassed the numbers on my transcripts and standardized test scores. I wanted badly, and secretly, to go to Stanford. My parents were the only ones who knew that I was applying for a school so outrageously out of my league. Knowing that my academic record was going to put me into the laughable pile, I put everything I had into my personal essay with the hope that they would sense the presence of a woman on the verge of great things. I don’t remember anything about the overall content or organization of the essay, but I remember the conclusion in very vivid detail.

I decided to tell Stanford a joke. If nothing else, I would give the Stanford folks a good laugh. I honestly believed that I was being clever. And, even worse, I think I believed that there was a chance that they would consider the joke girl because she was so clever. The joke I told is an oldy but goody and it cracks me up every time I tell it. I’m guessing, however, that Stanford wasn’t laughing with me.

At the end of the essay, I wrote something to the effect of:

“Well, if all that was not enough to persuade you, let me win you over with my favorite joke…”

And then I told it. I actually told it.

“So this rope walks into a bar, pulls up a chair, and orders a drink. The bartender takes a long look at the rope, shakes his head disapprovingly, and points to the sign behind him: “We don’t serve ropes.” Dejected but determined, the rope goes around the corner, ties himself into a ball, frays the top of his head, and returns to the bar. The bartender charges over to him and asks, “Hey, aren’t you that same rope?” And the rope says,

(Wait for it)

“Nope, I’m a-frayed knot!”

It’s a bad joke; I know that it is a bad joke. And chances are, the Stanford committee (if they even got to my essay) tossed my file into the “no” pile with a jaunty little, “Nope, Miss Myers, I’m a-frayed knot!” If so, I’m glad that I was able to provide that snarky little moment snooty fun. Mostly because I’m having my own snarky little moment right now.

They don’t realize it, but they finally let the joke girl in. Twelve years and significantly better grades later, I’m heading to Stanford for a post-doc. When I accepted the offer, there was a part of me that wanted to work in an “a-frayed SO,” but I resisted the temptation. For now.