Tee Hee

When I applied for university housing, way back when, I remember selecting as my first choice one of the freshman high-rises. They had sort of a bum rap — sardine cans of clueless freshmen, essentially — but I'd had a great experience in a high-rise at GHP and thought it'd be a bonding experience. I've since heard from others that it did help them integrate and make proper friend groups that have lasted well past university.

One of my other choices (there were three blank lines to fill in) was Mary Lyndon, selected sort of at random from UGA's website.

That summer, at a pool party, I met a really hot guy who was apparently going into his second year at UGA. "What dorm will you be in?" I asked. "Mary Lyndon!" Thought I: DAMN. There's a chance, though, right?

The chances were minimal. Everybody got put into the high-rises because they didn't get into all the other dorms on campus.

Not a month later, the phone rang, and — like one of those crisp scenes recorded in HD forever — I remember the conversation exactly.

"Hi, I'm phoning from UGA's housing department. We've had some sort of a mix-up and can't seem to find the form where you indicated your housing preferences! I'm so sorry we've left it this late to contact you! I'll do my best to place you in your first choice. So sorry. So... what was your first choice?"

"Mary Lyndon."


It was an easy lie. And bless her, that lady DID allocate me into Mary Lyndon.



Only now, 8 years later, did it occur to me what incredible consequences my flash of a lie might have had on the rest of my life. Who knows? Maybe if I had been in one of the high-rises, I wouldn't have walked out on UGA after two years; I might have chosen different majors; I might have made a lot of different choices in a lot of different ways.


I, for one, am laughing about it.

Sexism totally doesn't exist any more! ... Promise!

When I was little, teachers and classmates told me I was smart. I heard this so out of proportion to all other topics that I concluded: This is all I am. This is all I have.

And of course there were books, shows, and movies that made it seem like that would be okay — that the smart girl sometimes wins, that intelligence bests riches. So I clung to being smart and never gave a second thought to branching out in the personal attribute pool.

It was only once I became a frumpy, bitter teenager, tired of accidentally overhearing less than flattering statements about myself, that I paid closer attention to those shows and movies. Sure, you can be smart, but you better damn well be pretty, too. You can be The Intelligent One, and people will love you, but when you take off your glasses, you need to look like Rachel Leigh Cook or Carly Pope.

True frumpy girls, it seems, get nowhere. Invest in contacts or — better yet — laser surgery.

There are exceptions, of course: if you're funny (I'm not), rich (I'm not), fashionable (I'm not), or just extraordinarily fun to be around (ba ha hahaha!), you might make do with being intelligent and ugly. I wasn't, didn't, and couldn't.

The next time I feel guilty about my late mother's voice ringing in my ears about how I'm too vain about my hair, or I spend too much time choosing an outfit — I'm just gonna tell her, "Sorry, Mami. We've got a ways to go yet, and I want to Be Not Nobody." And then I'll bust into that Vanessa Carlton song, and the ghost of my late mother, who was a pianist, will be so horrified that... okay, yeah.