Yesterday should have ended the moment the classes did.
We had just finished our microeconomics midterm, followed immediately by another six relentless hours of Accounting and Human and Social Capital. Every part of me wanted to get back to the hotel, shower, and fall asleep.
Instead, like most of the 130+ people in our cohort, I found myself walking to a nearby Chinese restaurant with a group of classmates.
Two hours disappeared over shared plates, BYOB bottles, and conversations that wandered from careers to families to surviving Professor Smetters’ exam.
Some of the group headed to another bar afterward.
A few of us responsibly returned to the hotel.
Responsible lasted about fifteen minutes.
Because when an entire hotel is filled with WEMBAs, somehow sleep starts to feel like the less interesting option.
So we wandered downstairs to the hotel bar.
Someone ordered a glass of wine.
Someone suggested taking a few pictures.
Before long, we were all talking as though we’d known each other for years.
The laughter came easily.
We replayed the previous six hours together—the panic before the microeconomics midterm, the comments our professors had made, the questions people had asked, the cold calls, and all the little moments that had already become stories.
After a while, we carried our conversations upstairs to the hotel lobby.
Every thirty minutes someone would announce,
“I’m exhausted. I’m definitely going to my room in ten minutes.”
No one ever did.
It was there, sitting together in the lobby, that someone brought up my favorite moment from before the microeconomics exam.
Professor Smetters had stood at the front of the room and asked,
“Any questions before we begin?”
One of my classmates—who, like the rest of us, felt only moderately convinced she was ready—raised her hand.
“I have a question.”
Smetters waited.
“Can we use any color pen?”
Slightly puzzled, he replied, “Does it matter?”
My classmate continued.
“Because its my lucky purple pen.”
Without missing a beat, Smetters smiled.
“You’re going to need that today.”
The room burst into laughter.
We laughed even harder now.
Each retelling became a little more dramatic than the last, complete with exaggerated impressions of Smetters’ expression and timing.
I assumed that would be the end of the purple pen story.
Apparently not.
The next morning in Accounting, Professor Peggy introduced a case comparing the costs of manufacturing blue and purple pens. The discussion turned to whether the company should stop making the more expensive purple pen to reduce overhead costs.
Before anyone else could react, my purple-pen friend immediately said,
“No, we don’t stop manufacturing the purple pen!”
The classroom erupted.
A few moments later, Professor Lane asked whether anyone would actually buy the purple pen.
This time it was my hand that went up.
“I would.”
She smiled.
“So would I. Purple is my favorite color....”
Just like that, the joke had survived another class.
Somehow, an exam-day superstition had become a running joke shared across two professors, two courses, and an entire cohort.
Back in the hotel lobby that evening, we were still talking.
Still laughing.
Still insisting every half hour that we were leaving in “just ten more minutes.”
Eventually, the hotel receptionist walked over to our corner of the lobby.
“You guys need to lower your volume.”
We looked at each other and burst into laughter.
Somehow, that was the thing that finally sent everyone to bed.
As I walked back to my room that night, I found myself smiling.
I came to Wharton for its world-class professors, challenging coursework, and the opportunity to build an extraordinary network.
I hadn’t expected one of my favorite parts of the experience to be this.
A Chinese dinner after an exhausting day.
A glass of wine at the hotel bar.
A lucky purple pen that somehow became an inside joke.
A hotel lobby where nobody actually left when they said they would.
A room full of classmates laughing so loudly that the receptionist had to ask us to keep it down.
There is something uniquely special about being part of a student community at this stage of life.
Everyone arrives carrying years of professional experience and stories from lives already well lived.
Yet once class begins, we’re all simply students again.
Curious enough to ask questions.
Humble enough to admit what we don’t know.
Comfortable enough to laugh at ourselves.
Maybe that’s why these moments feel so memorable.
They remind us that learning isn’t only about the ideas exchanged in a classroom. It’s also about the people sitting beside us, the stories we collect together, and the friendships that quietly take shape between lectures.
And sometimes, all it takes is a lucky purple pen to remind you of that.
