When the oil industry collapsed in the mid-80s, I decided to diversify from petroleum geology and to work toward a masters in economics, with an emphasis in developmental economics. I felt I was living the development economist’s nightmare—caught in the collapse of the house of cards constructed upon high oil prices and temporary tax breaks that caused boom-bust cycles.

I liked the boom. I did not much care for the bust, but have to admit that in retrospect, it was marvellously liberating.

I was taking graduate courses in Economics, one of the students in my History of Economic Thought seminar was a well-groomed, kind-eyed yet solid jawed, impeccably groomed man from Greece. He was probably in his late 20s, but his bearing had a certain gravitas that made him seem at the very least to be in his late 30s.

We used to talk after class, and slowly I learned about his past. He had arrived in the United States a few months before with an acceptance to grad school, but essentially no money except very minimal savings. Most graduate students live in a condition of genteel poverty, and, well, they wear it like a badge of honor. In fact, when I was in grad school, it seemed that giving the appearance of abject destitution became not only a fashion statement, but a line in the sand that proclaims one's entrance into the rarified ranks of the “high priests in training” of academia or commerce.

The Greek PhD student was attired in neat, functional slacks, button-down shirt, polished shoes, and a gray or brown sportscoat. In central Oklahoma, that neat, conservative attire would fit well at one of the half-dozen or so Bible colleges in the area. It seemed a bit out of place at the state’s largest research institution, even though we were, as a nation, in the throes of late-stage Reaganomics, hostile takeover, privatization, and deregulation. Yuppies were big on Wall Street, but in grad school, no one much wanted to look like a yuppie.

He did not look like a yuppie; instead he seemed solid, if rather drab, as though going to work in an insurance company, or delivering a message at a local Southern Baptist church.

I liked the Greek graduate student. He was polite, and his conversations philosophical. As we continued to chat after class, I had the impression he lived in a neat duplex or small rental house near campus.

One day, however, I found out that my assumptions were wrong. He was not living in a duplex, apartment, or student housing. Instead, he was essentially homeless, and had been living out of his car, an 18-year-old Cadillac that once belonged to an elderly woman whose son sold it when she had to go into a nursing home.

This came up because he found out that he was given one of the graduate assistanceships which would allow him to teach two courses and receive a stipend that would allow him to rent a room in a house near campus.

And, although I had no idea that he was living in his car, I felt a certain affinity / kindred spirit.

I, too, was hopelessly uncool and out of sync with my personal costuming. Prepster? I had left that behind as an undergraduate. Yuppie? No, not enough panache. Grad student “studied cool”? Not slimming enough. And, well... there was something deeper.

Now, instead of assuming the “granola girl” look that would have probably signaled my identity as a future member of academia or commerce, I, perversely enough, wore clothing that harkened back to my “windfall days” a few years earlier, during the oil boom, when I was showing deals, selling leases, selling working interest, overseeing multi-million dollar drilling packages—all at the ripe age of 23. My dad bankrolled me and showed me the ropes starting when I was 20 or 21, and I embraced the entire world with both arms. I thought of myself as a successful petroleum geologist, a businesswoman, an entrepreneur. I loved the fact I could deal with the extreme terror I felt when faced with showing a deal to guys 30 - 40 years older than myself, who uniformly addressed me as “hon” by buying designer shoes (my favorites were Louis Jourdan, Manolo Blahnick), and buy splurging on designer outfits (Armani, Missoni, and Valentino were my favorites).

By the time I was in graduate school, the oil boom had converted to bust. I had a 4-month old infant, and I was finally starting to lose enough weight to fit into my clothes. You'd think I’d wear jeans, flats, baggy tops. After all, it was the late 80s. No, I donned my oil boom regalia to go to class (mainly night classes, since my husband watched our son at that time). I trotted in, wearing absolutely beautiful, but perhaps jarringly out of date, clothing. Anyone paying attention would see I wore clothing of an era that had crashed Icarus-like to earth. Gorgeous fabric, thick silks, paisley silk jacket and gorgeous light wool gabardine jodphur pants, worn with Bally boots.

Did anyone notice the night that, unexpectedly, my breasts started flowing breast milk (it was 8 p.m., a time when my infant son was almost always hungry), to the point it soaked through the double layer of pads and started to soak the gorgeous ivory silk of my Armani tunic/blouse?

Did anyone notice the time when the silk of my “glory days” Valentino blouse shredded when I lifted my arm? I did not realize that the silk had separated until I returned home, and was utterly mortified. My armpit was exposed, as were the bristly underarm hairs that I had left unshaved in my mad rush to get myself and my son ready for me to go to class.

The next semester, I was notified that I had received a scholarship that covered all my tuition that semester. It surprised me. Did my professor, who was also the head of the department, notice the fact that my elegant designer blouse was transforming itself into rags right before his eyes?

Surely that moment was a living metaphor for other aspects of my life.

I was wearing the designer clothes of my high-flying days, but they were disintegrating quickly in the harsh economic and psychological conditions of my life. I was redolant of cedar chests and other attempts of self-preservation.

What did it mean?

I don’t want to explore the possibilities.

*****************

Okay. Maybe I do.

What do you make of it?

There I was, 27 years old, a new mom wearing Armani, Valentino, Missoni purchased when I was 22 or 23, flying high, selling oil and gas deals, investing my proceeds back into leases, with the expectation that I’d be a multi-millionaire by age 25.

I was on my way.

No one knew it, but I hated it. I’d steel myself to make a presentation in Dallas, Oklahoma City, Houston, Tulsa—struggle to find the office, then, once I had an audience with the exploration team, I’d go through my usual set of self-effacing and self-deprecating statements: “These are not my prospects—they’re my dad’s—he has 30 years of experience in the industry, and is a proven oil-finder (I did most of the work, and it was an idea I had been working on for three years);” “Our landman leased the acreage,” (I did most of the work) “It’s corporate policy—we must take a check from you for your part of the working interest, and we’ll write you a check for your turnkey drilling services” (it was actually my policy; made that up on the fly, and it was a good thing, because if we had gone along with what they wanted, we would have lost around a half a million dollars.)

Psychologically, it was harder on me that I might have imagined.

I’d purchase designer shoes and outfits to reward myself. It sounds good on the face of it, but it really wasn’t. I was terrified and felt vulnerable.

For the most part, the men I dealt with were very nice, but there were definitely some weird comments. Part of me liked the attention. Another part of me felt extremely vulnerable.

When the price of oil collapsed, and the dominoes started to fall—banks, companies, individuals—I was already questioning the dream. Did I really feel an affinity for such high-stakes gambling? It always seemed so all or nothing… I wanted to set pipe on everything, but that was not practical. Why not? Why couldn’t we get the oil and gas out once we found it? Technology was advancing but not quickly enough…

And, well, there was the bust.

The quarter million dollars I had earned that I could have put into a home, a car, a portfolio went instead to oil and gas leases. When I could not sell them, I watched the leases expire, one by one.

Poof.

A lease I paid $25,000 and could have ostensibly sold for $50,000 and retained an overriding royalty once drilled went to nothing.

At the end of the day, all I had to show for the dozen or so prospects I sold and made a tidy profit on was an amazing collection of haute couture shoes, clothing, and purses.

I also had an Audi 5000 Turbo and had made a significant down payment on a house, so that the payments were not too onerous.

I also had some stupendous memories of resorts and five-star hotels my sister and I traveled to, funded by the proceeds of the lease sales.

Later, as I was boiling the cheapest pasta I could find, and pouring the hot pasta and water mix over half-slimy half-price fresh spinach purchased from the IGA just around the corner, I fought back thoughts of just how far I had fallen.

It was a chance to reassess and to do what my heart was really telling me to do.

*************

“The oil bust gave me an opportunity to diversify.”

That little line always elicited knowing guffaws when I had an audience of my fellow geologist refugees from the 80s.

*******************

Diversifying was just what I was doing as I made my way to night classes at the University of Oklahoma where I took graduate courses in Accounting and then later in Economics. My professors were impressed with my drive and dedication. My accounting professor said he’d sign for me to be able to sit for the CPA exam.

My economics professors were extremely encouraging as well.

But, what was it about the 80s?

My macroeconomics professor died in a car accident near Chickasha, Oklahoma.

My History of Economic Thought professor died mysteriously—I think he was perhaps a bit bipolar, and was caught in the crossfire of his disease.

And there I was—my elegant silk shredding to rags in front of my classmates’ eyes, my designer blouses and jackets developing large wet stains as my breast milk flowed, triggered perhaps by body memory, but also by shame and anxiety.

Well, for better or worse, I survived none the worse for wear.

In fact, I often look back with gratitude. After all, if the oil business had continued to boom, would I have gone back to school? Would I have studied toward an MBA, a master in Economics, and then, finally lighting on English for a master’s and a Ph.D.?

And, what happened to the Greek student who was willing to live in his car in the pursuit of a doctorate and a career as a professor?

I am sure he is doing well—probably has full tenure, a nice family, and a spotless house and car.

****************

Follow your dream.

That’s a nice thought—nice because it’s safe and it's a cliche that always elicits nods of approbation.

Follow your best and smartest instincts.

That probably sums it up in an earthy pseudo-Texan way.