Tag Archives: Georgetown University

“Crossing The Border”, or A Step- By- Step Guide to Bringing Your Northern Friends to the South

21 Feb

(**Apologies all around for nearly two Bitch-free months… Though I had been polishing up my curtsying resume and finding references to endorse my superior flower-holding skills, I found out that one cannot ACTUALLY become a professional debutante. This has severely put a damper on my plans for next year, but CERTAINLY not a damper on my Bitch-ing.)

This weekend marked the one-year anniversary of the time when I became the “Lizard Queen”, that magical evening when I became positive that Elizabethan collars were the reason that Silly Straws were invented (Try getting a G and T to your mouth with THAT thing on. I dare you.) As a washed-up has-been, it was my job to shed my metaphorical queenly/reptilian skin (ew) and receive flowers at the presentation of this year’s queen. Naturally, I was afraid of becoming Cindy Crawford in the 00’s, so I took matters into my own hands. Debutante balls are not arenas for competition (or, so they say), so sneakier tactics were required.

And so, like Russell Crowe in Braveheart,with more hairspray, and a gown that would make Tina Turner turn in her own resignation, I marched my troops of Northern friends down the East Coast.

Previously, the “Bring Your Northern Friends to the South Day” exhibitions have consisted of two — or fewer — parties. I generally cheat by bringing a Georgetown friend of Southern descent to raise a few eyebrows, but this year, I went for the gusto. Friends from the likes of Baltimore, Chicago, Indiana (not quite sure where that is, but I hear there’s corn involved) and New Jersey, bribed with the promises of snuggling ‘coon-hound puppies and consuming copious amounts of free booze, took their slightly-fearful first trips into the 6-gate metropole that is the Montgomery Regional Airport.

Some very important questions were asked and answered in advance of the main event:  “No, there is ABSOLUTELY no grinding NOR are there dance-floor make-outs at a debutante ball”, “Yes, PLEASE attempt to say ‘Yes, Sir’ and ‘Yes, Ma’am’, lest you stick out like an Italian Ice in the Blue Bell Ice Cream Aisle at the local Winn Dixie”, “Yes, people WILL make incredibly off-color jokes; please just smile and laugh uncomfortably”, “NO, you may NOT pretend that you are British and fake a British accent the entire night”, among many others.

My dad had an even better time than normal giving his “This is How We Tastefully Drink at Debutante Balls” Pre-Ball Lecture. We made sure to point out that, “if an Alabama or Auburn girl drinks far too much at one of these thangs, people will just say ‘Oh, she’s in yew-ni-vuh-suh-tee’, but, if y’all are the ones doing it, they’ll say, ‘Oh, THAT one’s from Noo Juh-see'”.

“And there is NOTHING less classy than a drunk debutante or her passed-out date” (Once more, with feeling…)

At the end of the night, I would say that, despite their obvious lack-of-accents, my friends were some of the most elegant-looking never-been-debs at the ball. (Apparently, someone invited a girl that had a dragon tattoo crawling out of the back of her dress, so there were some obvious discrepancies.) Fun times were had by all when, after a few drinks, my convincingly-straight-date made bets with the girls as to which of the masked-members were “closeted”. (No further remarks.)

The weekend ended wonderfully with a post-ball-brunch-mimosa-binge at the Country Club, an ingloriously-long post-hot-tub-mimosa-binge-post-post-ball-brunch nap, and my dad feeding my friends hush puppies and venison-burgers instead of beef-burgers and thinking he was very sneaky.

Much less Cousin Vinny, but maybe just a tiny tinge of Sweet Home Alabama?

Word on the street is, they returned physically unharmed (save a hangover or two, and a few extra pounds), but may carry those mental images around for life. And, returning to a life post-invasion-by-Nawth’nuhs, The South is doing just fine, too.

Advertisements

New Year, New You (I’m Doing Okay, Thanks)

5 Jan

After “roughing it” in the South for two weeks without the comforts of hand-tossed salad and overpriced, farm-fed tacos, I’d taken the opportunity to head up to Manhattan, to the city commonly viewed by Southern parents (read: my father) as a “den of sin for unmarried, unaccompanied young ladies”. I personally like to think of it more as a “retreat from a retreat”. Armed with the pepper spray that “Santa” so lovingly puts in my Christmas stocking each year and the annual lecture “’bout them Nooh Yawk City boys”, I headed “Nawth”, away from the questions about post-graduation plans, my inexplicable lack of an accent and the details of my deb-ball gown for February.

There’s something so exhilarating about being in the northeastern part of the country. As to whether it stems from my barracuda-esque attraction to the “big and shiny” or the adrenaline from my irrational fear of Hepatitis C — your guess is as good as mine. I also use my visit as the perfect opportunity to wear items my mother has deemed “a little too progressive for Montgomery”. This generally includes anything “too short, too tight, and therefore unacceptable”, a-la my sixth grade science teacher.

And so, in true den-of-sin, queenly fashion, I spent the first twelve hours of January First propped up in bed, praying for heavy cloud cover and eating leftovers from my 4AM pancake jubilee, when I insisted upon making everyone “midnight breakfast, y’all”.

On occasions when I’m Type A and driven, I make really elaborate, sub-categoried lists of my New Year’s Resolutions, 17/22 of which I’ve already broken. That’s okay. If we’re going to be honest, “Find a cure for my addiction to butter and chocolate”, “Be 85% less narcissistic” and “Stop judging you so much” were going to take lots of time, anyway. “Play with 100% more babies”, however, is going EXTREMELY well.

I’ve decided, then, to make a newer, more ESSENTIAL list of New Year’s resolutions, ones that can be practiced both in AND out of the South and that will hopefully make the world a better and safer place for all of those in a 30-mile radius of where I stand at any time:

1. Use my “Queen A” engraved silver champagne flute at least once a month. (This means throwing events worthy of doing so, which inevitably means wearing DRESSES worthy of doing so. No one puts Cocktail Dress in the corner.)

2. Help my father reconcile his dual identity of “gator-and-steer-wrestlin’, wild Louisiana swamp boy who wears innocuous gumbo-cooking outfits” and “dapper, Cambridge-class, Burberry-wearing fellow who wore a giant feather plume in public just eleven months ago”.

3. Develop a healthier and less-terror-ridden perception of New Jersey.

4. Discover a five-words-or-less explanation for my university major.

And, last but not least,

5. Wear more pearls.

As long as you had your black-eyed peas on 1/1/13, you’re going to have good luck for the year, so no need to wish for anymore of that. For y’all, and for me, both near and afar, I simply hope that 1) the Auburn Tigers have a better football season next year, 2) that Hank Williams magically comes back to life and restores faith in country music, and 3) that Channing Tatum becomes governor of the state, with Abby from NCIS as the head of the legislature. We may not be brilliant, nor are we always right, but we are, indisputably, Alabama.

“Castaway in Need of Chipotle”, or Things that the South Lacks

18 Dec

The South is a strangely magical but still-place which has shaped me, by and large, into the person that I am today. Now that I live away from the South, I’ve found that the best way to look at my birthplace is as if I were considering the pros and cons of a new boyfriend, or, more realistically, a pair of shoes. Though I had the old pair of shoes for quite some time, and they were reasonably comfortable, I knew it was time to get a new pair. Now that I’m in the market for yet another pair of shoes (i.e., where I’ll be living when Georgetown decides in May that it wants to eventually suck money from me, and not my parents), it’s become a game of “dos and don’ts” of where I’d most like to end up.

Each time I come home from DC, the realization that there are so many unnecessary-but-now-crucial luxuries  that the South doesn’t have both a) makes me slightly annoyed and b) gets those scheming wheels in my head a-turning. Every other day here, I propose to my dad ways he can revolutionize the town and make a goldmine. He, in response, says that he’d rather buy more cows instead. My “girl problems” upon touchdown in the state go from “unusually white” to “THE whitest”, and sometimes even I don’t believe the things that come out of my mouth (not unusual, though, in any area of the country).

There are many things that the South and the Southerners have. These are not any of them.

 1. A SENSE OF IRONY. In 5 days, I have seen enough eye-searing Christmas sweaters to outfit even the choosiest of bros. They are worn in total seriousness, paired appropriately (?) with an Auburn/Alabama baseball cap for casual day-wear and a teased-out bouffant for nighttime (because everyone knows that “the higher the hair, the closer to God” This is ESPECIALLY important at Christmastime).

PROS: No hipsters. ‘Nough said.

CONS: The concept of a “tacky” Christmas sweater party is met with blank stares. AVOID PROPOSING THIS AT ALL COSTS.

 2. CHIPOTLE. The closest one is over 2 hours away. I can feel my taco-fueled soul atrophying by the minute.

3. HOT YOGA. There’s rumored to be a class somewhere in town, but no one seems to know where it is, or what the point of it is, or “why on Earth that Smith girl runs around in exercise clothes all day”.

 4. A GRASP OF THE CONCEPT OF A “HEALTHY” SALAD. Progressing along the “salad bar” at the country club on Sunday was comparable to what I imagine observing the Spanish Inquisition was, except with dubiously-termed “lettuce”. I’ve practically been having nightmares about going to SweetGreen or Chop’t and then having it vanish before I can order something made entirely of baby spinach. ATTENTION: SOMEONE IN THIS TOWN, PLEASE LOOK INTO ESTABLISHING A SALAD FRANCHISE. It would be, like, every private-school mother’s dream come true, and by “middle-aged female”, I clearly mean “me”.

 5. A FILTER: While the loudness and quality of enunciation is really great for Christmas caroling, it is also useful for shouting across a crowded expanse something to the effects of, “OH MY GAWD, YOU’RE SO GROWN! I REMEMBER WHEN YOU USED TO RUN AROUND NEKKID AS A BLUE JAY IN THE FRONT YARD ON WILDWOOD WEARING NOTHING BUT A BIG PINK HAIR BOW”.**

**It happened. Both the yelling and the “nekkid”-ness. I could work the hairbow.

Home, Sweet (Jesus, What Did I Get Myself Into) Home

17 Dec

Coming home after finals is a slightly traumatic experience for any Georgetown student or any college student at all, for that matter. After 3 weeks of eating your feelings + the feelings of any character of The OC, complaining about how much work you have, yet still finding time to watch two entire television series from start to finish, and discovering every combination under the sun of alcohol and apple cider, the stress hits.  By December 5th, I practically had to wear a military-grade gas mask every time I stepped into Lauinger Library, just so that the fog of fear/hopelessness coming off of all of the freshmen mixed with the pungent odor of 8-hour-old chai tea latte wouldn’t knock me out.  We all deserve a break.

 Somebody, then, please tell me why I was running around the house this morning, cursing in my head (because Lawd KNOWS cursing is not allowed in the house, ESPECIALLY not from the mouth of a debutante) because I had ripped my pantyhose, already 15-minutes late after trying to tone down a party-dress to church-appropriate level (with mixed success), wearing makeup for the first time in years (read: since the school-wide, fancy-pants holiday-themed booze-fest, so,  two weeks, roughly), all the while wondering what in the WORLD I was going to talk to people about between hymns and thinking of clever answers to the only two questions that I knew they were going to ask:

 1. “Oh, it was so wonderful hearing that x got engaged. Have you met any boys up there in Washington?” (No, I’m a social pariah that has taken up residence in the convent next door. Of COURSE I have met boys up there. I know, however, that this is a sneaky way of prepping the bookie that I am almost certain that the Junior League has to keep tabs on which child gets engaged, and when. In that case, no. No boys. None.)

 2. “So, what do you think you’re going to be doing after graduation?” (Your guess is as good as mine, lady. I was thinking about inquiring into a career as a professional debutante, but I hear that the pay is low for the curtsy-per-hour-expectancy.)

 Southerners, being the wonderful conversationalists that they are, skip right past the weather when making small talk. For this reason, I am fairly positive that everyone at Georgetown thought that Freshman BWAPE was auditioning for her very-own talk show, or, perhaps, that they were on some sort of hidden camera show where some overenthusiastic girl in pearls attempts to get them to share all of their deepest secrets.  I SWEAR that I am going to submit an “Alternative List of Questions to Ask the Girl Bewitched by Yankees” before I step off the plane. Also, please don’t ask me what my major is. I have yet to be able to narrow it down to one sentence, and I can see your eyes glazing over.

 In addition, I will literally never learn to pack correctly for the trip home. Apparently, “freezing cold” down here equates to “the surface of the sun”. Maybe I’ll shed a few pounds from the sweating, though.

 Truly the most wonderful thing I heard today, in spite of all of this, was from the woman who made my “lizard queen” gown, a woman that never passes up the opportunity to cook for 100+ people and will fuss over the ugliest baby on the earth.  When she got to Dreaded Question #2, and I said I was, most likely, headed up to New York City, she paused, momentarily, concerned. After an instant passed, she smiled, put her hand on my arm, and said, “Well, you know, I think it will be okay, because there are an awful lot of Southerners moving up there these days.” I half-stifled a giggle, reassured her that I had already met a sweet girl that had moved up there from Ole Miss, among other Southerners, and that there were special bars where both Auburn and Alabama fans could congregate to watch their respective Saturday football games.  

 It is both terrifying and reassuring to know that, no matter where you go, there’s always a community of Southerners there to greet you. The reception of me in my hometown, as with my reception of those who have known me for so long, changes over time. I am sometimes regarded like the wolf-child who came out looking half-decent but may break out into a New Jersey accent at any time. I sometimes catch myself wishing that I could slow my mind (and mouth) down long enough to keep this at bay, and that I could effectively convince people that there’s enough “Southern” left in me that people actually refer to me as such up at school! Regardless, I suppose that you can take the girl out of the South, dunk her in a batter of Tombs Ale, French onion soup and the pages of an Ayn Rand novel and deep fry her in that nasty stink that comes out of the DC Metro grates, but, in the end, she’s still Southern at the core.

Image

I Am the Lizard Queen

25 Sep

There comes a special moment in only the most “privileged” of Southern girls’ lives in which she gets to be a debutante.

I got to be one four times.

A tradition reviled by the rest of the world, the debutante ball is an age-old event in which fathers either show off their daughters or attempt to make them look better by parading them around in large, white dresses with trains. This event historically coincided roughly with the time at which fathers decided that their daughters should be sucking the monetary life out of some other hapless male in the community. Girls would take off entire years of the university schooling they weren’t actually participating in to plan dresses, menus, and guest invites. I’ve been told by many that anyone who can survive a debutante ball can survive a wedding.

My first “debut” occurred at the ripe age of 5 years. Despite the still-unexplained disaster of cutting all my own hair off the day before the event, I appeared on stage looking just as well as (read: considerably more adorable than) the other “princesses” and “pages” (dressed in outfits which indubitably would later turn one or more of them gay). I curtsied twice, as I was a perfectionist from a young age and dissatisfied with my first performance. Then, some hag in roughly one million sparkles attempted to steal my spotlight. I allowed her to do this, mainly because I was jealous of how brilliant her dress was compared to mine. After my ‘presentation’, it was time for the “party” portion of the charades. I drank red punch in a tiara while being doted upon by older people and chasing boys around the dance floor. It set me up quite well for what I proceeded to do three nights a week roughly twelve years down the road.

15 years later, I was informed that it was my turn to be that hag who both impressed and intimidated me as a princess. Other deb balls had come and gone, and I had been left at twenty-one years old with a skill set particular to the world of debutantes:

  1. I had, and always will have, perfected my curtsy. It is a swan-like maneuver of elegance and pretentiousness which will serve me well later in life, when I meet my mother-in-law, who will obviously be a European royal head of state.
  2.  My abilities to appear dead sober in conversations with “adults” after morose amounts of alcohol are bar-none the best in my entire high school and university classes. Additionally, I can drink like an English football fan without spilling an entire drop on my white gown and/or gloves.
  3. I can effectively make a horrendously uncoordinated, university-aged male look less like an idiot while doing the waltz.
  4. My high-stakes smiling endurance is both powerful and unwavering, and I am able hold a dazzling thriller of a toothy grin for 45 consecutive minutes.
  5. Lastly, but not least, I can carry a ten-pound bouquet of flowers on a plastic post, directly above my belly button, for several hours, whilst wearing slippery dead animals on my hands.

Ergo, I am more or less the champion of the world of cummerbunds. Nothing could prepare me, however, for the ordeal that was to be my night of queendom.

In my particular area of being raised, debutante balls consist of a court that is comprised of the “queen”, her “king”, her “maids”, and their escorts. Dress for these balls ranges from ridiculously elaborate to “secret society”- level outlandishness. Girls spend hundreds of hours and, subsequently, thousands of dollars in searching for the ultimate gown. Many a silkworm and baby goat gives up his life for 6 hours of drunken glory. When everything is put into action, and after all of the parties, luncheons, dances, after-ball breakfasts, and brunches are over, everyone has gained several pounds, an entire community’s economy has been sustained for a year, and all have enjoyed themselves tremendously, save the one set of parents whose debutante had to get scraped off of the ladies’ bathroom floor.

“Project: Turn an Awkward Nerd into a Queen” was destined to occur from the night I was put to bed as a 5 year-old princess and commenced full-throttle in the spring of my sophomore year. Both my father and mother made endless calls to me each day, which was particularly embarrassing, as I attended a university which had approximately two debutantes in its six-thousand-member student body. What’s worse is that my father’s Southern drawl heavily exaggerates my own, and NOTHING is more obnoxious than the girl walking around talking to “Daddy” about how many sequined gift boxes I wanted to be ordered, and when I needed to have my fittings, and “LAWD, girl, you have GOT to find an escort, and he can NOT be one of your gay friends in disguise.”

This was the biggest problem. When a debutante does not have a boyfriend, it becomes exponentially harder to find a date. When she is queen, this figure is multiplied by infinity. Going to a school in the Mid-Atlantic region made this a nearly impossible task, because it would involve explaining a debutante ball to a stoned guy in a lacrosse jersey. I finally settled on an old friend from Texas who vaguely knew the ropes, warning him that he would be asked over one thousand times if he and I were “going steady”. He was. Thank goodness he took it in stride.

This boy, however, was not my “king”. No, the queen is paraded around with a friend of her father dressed in knickers, makeup and faux-facial hair, who, when in full costume, bears a striking resemblance to the Burger King. My “king” was the most fantastic “good ole boy” the ball had ever seen, and the most Burger King-esque; thus, he had been the king approximately eight times before. My dad began referring to him as Henry the Eighth. I was nervous enough already and therefore not amused.

With everything lined up and the date fast approaching, I flew to my hometown and prepared for the “dress rehearsal”, which I highly anticipated upon as being a nightmare, and I was correct. It was at this rehearsal that I first became aware of my status as “the Lizard Queen”. I have never been appreciative other than at that very moment for my “athletic” build, because I was placed in an Elizabethan collar and a cape which weighed no less than 100 pounds. I asked an assisting member’s wife to bring me a mirror, in which I saw myself for the first time. “Jesus Christ; I look like a frilled lizard that’s just been startled.”

Six hours later, and, miserably, only one drink in, it was time for the presentation to begin. I had my hair and makeup done that afternoon and conceivably had never looked better in my life. I had simultaneously never been more nervous, and was constantly being threatened with questions about my love life and requests to remember people’s names who had “known me since I was five and in smocked dresses and bare feet running up the aisle to the front of the church for Sunday school (breath, agonizingly long, Southern-dialect pause) so are you dating that handsome young man with no accent?” I thought I would faint when it was time to put that godawful cape on. People with their best intentions were feeding me ice cubes soaked in whiskey and fanning me with the booklet accompanying my Swarovski crystal “scepter”. I needed a moment to be alone, so I stepped away to peek through the curtains onto the stage, just in time to see the last princess execute her little curtsy, turn around, and glance over at me in terror. “Great,” I thought, “I’m the hag that I saw 15 years ago, way too old to ever go back, and now I’m going to ruin what my father and my entire community worked so hard to put on for me.” As I shuffled in my enormous dress to my fate, I passed a mirror, in which I proceeded to give myself a good, hard, look. Then I practiced my smile, one last time. “No. I’M the Lizard Queen.”

Or, you know, the Pope.

Image

“Wise Words” from a Senior to an Unsuspecting, Be-Pearled College Freshman

18 Sep

Dear FWAPE (Freshman with a Pearl Earring),

Congratulations – you’ve escaped the South – for now, at least! Now it’s time to head up to the “big city”, where you can use all of those still-fresh cuss words you’ve barely dared to think about since your mama caught you with them in the 6th grade. It’s also time to show those college kids you can drink with the best of them…!

Oh, wait; you go to a nerd-school.

We’ve got a lot to work through here. You’re about to make some classic mistakes. Please tell me you haven’t already forgotten the two pieces of sage advice Daddy gave you before you left:

1. “Bag Woman (charming nickname, I know), at every minute, at some point on campus, there’s a keg being opened. It is not your job to find every one of them.” (Cut to The Tombs, junior year….)

2. “Now, Sweetheart, you can’t just go off and start eating everything in sight. You’ve got a debutante gown to fit into in 4 months.” (And… Once more, with feeling!)

Even though your mother advised you to “go to a fun school, like SMU or UGA, have a good time, and find a husband”, you chose instead to head up to DC, where you admittedly kind of liked the warning that your oldest brother gave you, that “all Georgetown girls are bitches. Cutthroat bitches in Lululemon”. First mission: Find out what Lululemon is, and embrace it with all your heart.

Now, even though you’re currently a “city gal”, it’s okay to be proud of your Southern heritage. You will be, to some degree, for the rest of your life. Remember when you said you’d never listen to country again? Well, just wait till you’re homesick…or getting dressed…or curling your hair….or cooking dinner….Yeah. Nice try. You’ll be stuck with Merle Haggard and Garth Brooks for as long as your dad is still complaining about the “government spies”. It’ll become a strong case of Stockholm Syndrome, though. Just go with it.

THAT BEING SAID, PLEASE don’t go tackling everyone in a thirty-foot radius who uses the word “y’all”. You’ve got four whole years to prove to everyone that you’re absolutely bonkers. Pace yourself.

By the way: ROCK that sundress-and-pearls combo at your very first Hoyas football game. Just know that this is not Auburn University, and people will question your motives. That’s okay. No one’s going to look back and smile when they think about that tube top made of navy and gray Duct Tape they wore. Come on, y’all.

You’ll meet many people in these first few days and weeks. The majority of them will be from New Jersey. Some of these people you’ll call friends, and others will merit some degree of smile/recognition during your random campus encounters. Consider yourself lucky though: some of the best friends a Hoya could ever have will be found right on your very own freshman floor, and you’ll be laughing and crying with them through the end. When you go out dancing with them and their parents at Tombs one of the very first nights of your senior year, you’ll declare that it’s your best college memory to date. You’ll be absolutely correct.

Some girls you meet will be just like you – girls from New Orleans, Tennessee, South Carolina, and Arkansas, and you’ll take refuge in their company when times (and mid-Atlantic weather patterns) get tough. Many girls that you’ll meet in the beginning will be sweet and friendly, and they’ll be just as nervous as you are. Other girls will be not-so-nice. They’ll say that you came up to the North to get your “MRS Degree”, and that your way of living and style of dress are ridiculous. Don’t let them get to you – soon, they won’t even be blips on the radar.

Your worst enemy, however, will be your ROOMMATE, a London girl who you came to school with all the expectations of becoming best friends and skipping off into the sunset together with to your favorite bars. You’ll be wrong – at first. She’ll say she thinks you act and dress like a skanky version of her mother, that you try too hard, that she never should’ve lived with an American. You’ll say she parties too hard, that her friends are stupid and vain, and that she should go to the gym EVER in her life. DON’T EVEN THINK about moving out. You’ll be glad you didn’t. In three months, you’ll start understanding that the best parts about each other are the things which make you different (even though you thought you were perfect matches, via the Georgetown University “E-Harmony”). You’ll continue living together for another year and a half, laughing and yelling (often at the same time, and often at each other). When she studies abroad for an entire year, you’ll Skype and Facebook Chat every day, and it’ll feel like an eternity until she FINALLY COMES HOME. You won’t even care when she calls you from Shanghai at 2AM to ask you her life expectancy as it relates to a partially-thawed quiche. When senior year rolls around, y’all will be planning your futures together, and you’ll start getting worried when she applies to jobs in different parts of the country, because “who’s going to listen to my stupid stories, and eat kale with me at 3AM, and get bottles of wine on Wednesdays when it’s grossly in-apropos, and take heinously unflattering pictures of me and attempt to post them on the Internet?!” This is TBD, but here’s to hoping you’ll be making really embarrassing toasts at your hypothetical future weddings (FAR future. No worries.)

Other people will be slowing down from what they did athletically in high school. You’ll be speeding up. You’ll join the Triathlon Team, where you’ll meet the people who will push you to be your best. You will also marvel at their abilities to consume SO MUCH ALCOHOL and be happily in bed by 9:30, off on a ride at 11P. You’ll join the ranks of spandex-wearers, and wonder how you’ve ever hoofed it around in anything else. Embrace the spandex. You’ll never get over your thighs, but you’ll get over yourself eventually.

You’ll be one of the storied few who consistently goes on dates throughout your college career. Who would’ve known that you never got asked to a single dance in high school? You’re a belle, though; it’s to be expected. Those other boys, though… Well, they’re not talking to you or buying you drinks because they think you’re delightfully interesting. Wise up quickly, before things get ugly. Senior boys are trouble with a capital “T”, no matter HOW nice they look in Vineyard Vines bow ties.

Branch out! Enjoy the world you now live in of people who think it’s cool to be smart! Go to the prestigious debate society, and fail miserably at public-speaking. Those kids you call “nerds” now will never leave your side, even if they have purple hair and speak at you in what sounds like computer code. ESPECIALLY never let go of THAT one. She’ll be the one you can always count on, even if you forget to do the dishes….always.

Oh, and, by the way, you’ll get a tattoo. Bet you didn’t see THAT one coming.

Most importantly, though, never look for yourself in someone else. It’ll be one of the hardest lessons you ever learn, but, when you do, it’ll feel like you’ve stepped back onto the Hilltop as a brand-new belle.

Buckle up, lady. It’s going to be one hell of a rodeo.

Love,

Senior You