My Uncle told me revolving doors are the superior type of door as they don’t let indoor heating spread to the outside. Frankly, I couldn’t care less.

I hate revolving doors and I have no clue why. Is it a symbol of repressed trauma? Is something Freudian at play? I don’t know. What I do know, however, is that when the sheet metal starts spinning, one better go along with it or get away otherwise they will get hit. To me, a revolving door is synonymous with a quadrisected death trap. I am scared when I get into the turning torture apparatus. Like Stephen King's horrific novel, the only word that comes to my mind with revolving doors is misery.

While I do not have quite the story that Paul Sheldon does within his nightmare world, I do have my fair share of day-to-day struggles. Confidence at an abysmal level, I often find my head spinning like those godforsaken doors. The fear I feel for the doors is the same that I have when meeting new people. I am afraid of being judged for who I am or that I might slip up when introducing myself. When I saw the ad for the Penwasciz program at my local Advocate hospital, I knew this could be the chance to come out of my shell.

An exclusive program, Penwasciz is for upperclassmen High School students with an interest in the medical profession. The students in the program shadow all types of hospital staff from Physicians to MRI Technicians. I decided I would deny my fears and fill out an application for the program. After many weeks of tireless waiting, I received the glorious “you have been selected for an interview, congratulations” email. After hundreds of double-takes and revisions of the email, I figured I might as well put my all into the interview. One clean sweater and some khakis later, I was parked outside of the hospital's main entrance.

It was like a colosseum with purple and white banners, inviting me into a bloodbath. To call my stomach a pit would be an understatement. How could such a sterile environment make me so nauseous? Why was it so gloomy outside? Was this meant to be? Questions flooded my brain while confidence drowned. It took some shivering, and positive self-talk to get myself to the door. There was no handle. There were no hinges. 

I hate revolving doors and I have no clue why. Whoever decided to put one in a hospital is just as sick as its patients. It spun just like a meat grinder. Convincing myself to pursue the interview had just gotten one thousand times harder. Curling into a ball and calling it quits felt like the best option. Yet, it would be wrong to turn back after I had gotten this far. A quivering foot stepped inside the terminal, preparing for the worst. Eyes closed, mouth wide open, I was ready to scream. The worst never came.

I hate interviews, and I think I know why. It isn’t that I am bad at them. I’m not. The interviewer told me I was personable. The questions weren’t hard either. It was just the “What are your strengths” kind of interview that any job asks you. It wasn’t that I didn’t get into the program. I did. It wasn't that the interviewer was scary; it was my friend's mother. I hate interviews because of how terrifying it is to anticipate them. I had no clue how they feel about the awkward junior band kid which is frightening. But then again, interviews do bring opportunities to grow. In my experience, a door is a pathway between a person and their future. A revolving door takes an extra push but is much more satisfying on the other side.