Fashion, Finals, and Freak-outs

I’ve managed to get myself stuck into a few crises recently. About two or two and a half weeks ago, I looked at my overflowing t-shirt drawer, my well-worn-through jeans, and my closet packed like sardines with more pairs of corduroy pants and hoodies than the average woman needs, and my identity crisis sunk in. I’m all of 20 years old now, and if ever there was a time to grow up and wear big girl clothes… I remember wearing a t-shirt tucked into a skirt I had bought last fall (only wore it once, I’m sure) on a Tuesday, and I got a lot of compliments on how I looked. Later that day, I had the study abroad meeting with most of the other students from my college who would be studying in Europe. A question that I found ridicule was asked, and I was more than annoyed for the three second delay it took for the study abroad coordinator to respond. “I hear that people in Europe dress a bit… classier than we do here.” Déchets de mon précieux temps, j’ai un chien de prendre soin de“Definitely. Sweat pants and hoodies don’t fly in Europe, especially not in France. You’re usually fine if you wear a scarf, though.” Quelle. Horreur. My identity crisis came screaming to the front of my head. It’s time to grow up, and FAST.


Later that night, I googled a few French fashion topics. For those of you that ever read Lisi Harrison’s young adult series The Clique, this might look a bit like one of Massie’s State of the Union addresses to you.

French Fashion vs. Me
Neutral Eyeshadow – Loud Eyeshadow
Bright Lips – Chapstick
Hair DID – Hair UNDID
Heels with Jeans – Disaster waiting to happen in Heels and Jeans
Blouses – T-Shirts
Flats – Sneakers

Putain de merde. I’m being sent to the fashion capital of the world, and comparatively, I dress like a hobo. I realize that the idea that French people hate Americans isn’t true anymore. I still know that blending in as much as possible would benefit me in SO many ways… Again, this does pair nicely with my “grown up” clothing need.




So since this somewhat world-shaking discovery, I have in my possession about seven new scarves, mostly square, and I’ve managed to wear one almost every day. I’ve worn my heels for parts of days when possible (meaning I have a pair of flats in my backpack for use when walking my dog, and I’ve worn the flats when the ground has been wet). I can’t begin to describe the compliments I’m getting. Granted, who doesn’t need an ego boost every once in a while, but I’m beginning to think this identity crisis is a good thing. I’m planning on begging my 16 year old cousine to teach me how to walk in heels in exchange for any of my graphic t-shirts she wants. Besides, in the career path that I’m headed for, heels and skirts or trousers will get me so much farther than painted sneakers and hoodies…

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Now is the time of the school year that college students relish and dread simultaneously: Finals. I would say I’m in the lucky group. I had a final performance that worked for two classes last week. I only have two sitting finals (one tomorrow, one two days from now). I have a take home test and a paper to write for French (sujet: quelque chose avec Le Malade imaginaire) that are due online four days from now. I have it good. Clearly, I feel that I’m sitting pretty as I’m sitting at my laptop écrit au lieu d’étudier. I’m definitely more worried about le déménagement than I am about finals. I’m supposed to pack up my dog and all of his things, plus whatever else I can fit in my car for the weekend. Everything in the car will more than likely be staying at home so I can get my move underway. Le plus tôt je peut sortir de get appartement misérable, mieux c’est. Despite having a bit of a schedule on what needs to leave the apartment when… I still somehow have no idea where to start. The fact that I have a bit of a complex that gets triggered whenever my independence is tampered with (or whenever I have to ask for help on something) definitely doesn’t help with much…

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Donc, cette semaine n’est pas mauvaise… totalement… mais je suis très inquiète et a souligné pour ce que le corps pense est raisonnable mais l’ésprit trouve ridicule. C’est ma vie…

En art comme en amour, l’instinct suffit. –France.

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