Oct 23rd, 2024
Since time immemorial, the merest glimpse of the oncoming bloom of spring has borne a deeper meaning to the to-be-eligible singles of Washington, DC. It is a critical moment, a Homeric kairos promising growth and renewal to the epic hero bold enough to break up with the lowly policy analyst they cuffed for company over the long winter nights. Though the soon-to-be ex’s presence and warmth may have been adequate, their amusement at I Think You Should Leave sufficient, the rite of spring demands its adherents to trip the light fantastic in search of the most impressive arm candy/curriculum vitae. The pressure is on to lock down an ethical polycule before the interns migrate down from Cambridge and sully the dating pool, so the Washington Post style section is here to help you interpret the answers to that most classic of District dating questions: what is your favorite federal agency?
US Agency for International Development: They went to Wharton. They went to Harvard Business School, and really enjoyed that one class cross-listed with Kennedy. They summered at Goldman. They burned out at KKR, and moved to DC to ‘give back’, though no one really believes them, least of all themselves. But that training is deep. They possess a Pavlovian need to work. From 9-5 it shows. From 5-9 it really shows. A few drinks in and those spreadsheets are humming. Are you the Excel INDEX(MATCH) function? No? Then good luck getting their attention. Though if they get it all done by six, they might find time to squeeze seven minutes of heaven in the supply closet with you onto their calendar (look out for a Calendly link). But don’t count on it. They will die alone.
Nuclear Regulatory Commission: The only thing longer than their Michigan honors thesis on Hyman G. Rickover was their Letterboxd review of Oppenheimer complaining about its insultingly blatant omission of Hyman G. Rickover. Needless to say, it's their favorite movie. A Beautiful Mind is second. Zootopia is third (it’s an allegory!). They’re not necessarily awful in bed, but you’ll spend the entire time wishing they would stare at you a little more and their life-sized poster of Florence Pugh a little less.
Federal Maritime Commission: In the littoral they keep it locked down. Three miles out they unbutton the top button. Six miles out, they let their hair down. Subtle but smart, commodore. Nine miles out, the anchor retracts and the beat kicks in. Once they hit twelve miles out – that holy line of demarcation – the bass drops and they melt into the moist embrace of international waters. They want to bump uglies with a slim Russian model like it’s 1988 in the Black Sea all over again, baby. They want to sail a sultry little Panamanian item from Key West to Galveston and back in sexy and seductive violation of the Jones Act, like the naughty seadog they are. But the only thing they like better than the release is the prior restraint (oops, guess their summer interning at the Department of Justice imprinted more than just admiralty law). Make them repeat after you, but only – only – with your permission… oh you can see them struggling, you feel their desire, their want, their need, their need for that release… oh… oh… oh… cab-cab-cab-a… … cabotage.
Consumer Financial Protection Bureau: They voted for Warren. So, you know… eh?
United States Merit Systems Protection Board: They go their own way, not with the crowd. Well, at least since they returned to the real world from Bard last year (they’re 26, but they had to find themselves, okay?). They were really into Lorde, until she sold out. They were really into Grimes, before Elon. They were really into Little Big, until the Donbas. They are into Boygenius. They are still into Kate Bush. They are into Sleater-Kinney to such an extent that you will be genuinely worried about whether they can distinguish reality from their detailed fantasy involving a whirlwind world tour as Carrie Brownstein’s personal percussionist/stylist/bunkmate. They were never into Taylor Swift. Their dad is pretty high up at Raytheon and is friends with a Deputy Undersecretary at the Pentagon, which should help you get into the next administration. He is also friends with Taylor Swift’s dad, who, you know, if it came down to it they’d totally go see, not because they like the music, but you know, just get a sense of what it’s all about as like a… you know, like as a… a – a cultural event.
Commodity Futures Trading Commission: They have red hair trending Larry David, are 5’5”, live in Silver Spring, and work for a congresswoman. Their stepbrother has a Kennedyesque mane of wavy brown locks, is 6’3”, lives in Logan Circle, and works for a senator. You’ve had your eye on him (the stepbrother) for months, and hey, how else are you going to meet him? When you ask him this question you just know he’ll say the SEC, and I mean… that’s a big boy answer, you know?
Office of Government Ethics: They’ll meet you for a quick drink. Low stakes, low expectations. You’ll head over after you get off work, even though you don’t really want to schlep all the way to H St. from Federal Triangle. You’ll hit it off. Like really hit it off. You were supposed to be home in an hour. Instead you’ll be grabbing dinner, then dessert, then a nightcap, then a nightcap. You’ll sleep over, and awake to the most delightful menagerie of aromas wafting in from the kitchen. You’ll grab one of their shirts, wander into the kitchen, and see they didn’t just prepare breakfast, they prepared a spread. Eggs (scrambled with cheese, just as you said you prefer), waffles (you like them more than pancakes), turkey bacon (you don’t eat pork), grapefruit juice (your favorite fruit), and tea (you never really got the taste for coffee). With a laugh and a twirl they lay it all out in front of you, along with your gift disclosure forms. To be filled out in triplicate. You’ll find a way to excuse yourself, get dressed, and never see them again. You might not have much, but you have your dignity. And a degree from Penn, I guess. But mostly just your dignity.