I begin to sweat. There are 12 more binders and books on Public Sector jobs. Well, now at least I know in which field I won't be working.

So many binders. Where will I begin and when will I stop? At 1 p.m., I swear I'm leaving, but with each page there is another address, another interesting job or service that wouldn't hurt to try.

But as my list of cover letters and addresses grows, as the number of recommendations reaches triple digits, I fear for each subsequent page, each subsequent binder. I pray that there is some deadline, some stipulation that makes me unable to qualify for the job. Good, this one is for juniors. This one is for minorities. This one was due yesterday.

At 2 p.m. I see a binder on Archaeology. Although I've never really thought much about digging, it sounds intriquing. Oh, and here's one on Wine Tasting in Tibet, on safaris to study the mating habits of Brazilian butterflies, on the endless opportunities with Xerox Co.

OCS is capitalism's Garden of Eden, and I'm getting hayfever.

I see a friend dressed in one of those yuppie outfits. She's just had an interview. Interview, I yell, realizing that although summer is more than two months away, most people already have their fight schedules from Cambridge arranged. After the shock, I begin to envy them.

I miss those summers when nothing really mattered. I want to be booted off to camp by my parents and have them pick me up after a month. I want to take those family vacations in late August. I miss those precious times when everything was decided by others.

PERHAPS I'm blaming OCS for my own unwillingness to grow up and take the initiative, including organizing for this summer. It's so far away, isn't it? Tell me it is, because there are more than 80 pages of summer programs and addresses laying on my bedroom floor.

They whisper my name in the night, reminding me that time is ticking away. They yell, "the decision you make today will effect the rest of your life. The job you have this summer will open up opportunities in your career." A horrible figure appears in my dreams, laughing at me and ponting at my resume. It's a blank sheet of paper.

I call my parents the next day and tell them I might want to live at home this summer. They're thrilled, and I'm relieved. My mom says she'll plan a trip for August. And, maybe, just maybe, they'll send me to camp for a couple of weeks.