"You're so different now," sighs a high school friend. She's fingering my Lacoste tank and perusing my purses. "Dear Lord," she mutters, "Longchamps." She looks sad, and betrayed. "You've become such a prep," she says, accusingly.
Later, at The Loop, a sorority sister examines my favorite Earl's, the ones with torn hems. "What happened?" she asks, feeling the frays as if they were wounds. I shrug and slide into the booth. "I like them," I say. She shakes her head and picks at her pizza, bemused. "You're such a hippie," she moans.
The next morning, I climb out of the shower and into my usual uniform: denim skirt, T-shirt, flip-flops. Eminem's "The Way I Am" shakes my stereo and as I check the mirror, I ask it: "Do you see what I see?"
For everyone, the answer is usually "no." Perception is tricky: We see ourselves as many faces, melted together. But we can't live with complexity in someone else's mind, and, in the eyes of others, we become what they need us to be.
"Exactly!" cries a partner in crime, shaggy haired and sometimes showered. We're on a run to Rick's, and he's lamenting his groupies, the girls who fall for him hard.
"They're not into me," he insists, downing my waffle as he talks. "They just like the idea of me. They've invented our relationship in their heads, and now they're in love with their own imaginations." He swigs his coffee like it's a shot.
"It's a rough life," he smiles.
My friend the art history major has it rougher: she woke up late and ran to Russian painters in her PJs. Sliding into her seat, she got stares of death from the Catherine Malendrino coven in the corner. "It's like they're vultures," she snaps, "and my Paul Frank flannels were like, fresh meat." The glares were hurtful, but really, they were no different than a dream crush: some people imagine their loves, others need to invent their inferiors.
"They looked at me like I was trash," she moans, hiding her head in a Juicy hoodie.
"They looked at you," I correct, slipping off my sling-backs, "Like they needed you to be trash. It's different." She flashes a shaky smile. "But that's what they see in me," she sighs, "So how am I supposed to see myself?"
That midnight at 'Dillo, I spill the question to a frat boy with equal taste for beer and Bob Dylan. "See whatever you want," he says, gulping his Guinness. "If other people can invent you, shouldn't you get an equal shot at self creation?"
In the fabulous flick Adaptation, Charlie Kauffman concludes, "You are what you love, not what loves you." The same goes for perception. In the end, you are what you want to be, not what others make you.
The next morning, I climb out of the shower and into my closet. Staring at my options, I peel off my bathrobe and listlessly list my choices. "Preppie," I sigh, passing a polo. "Princess," I smile, skimming a sundress. "Bitch," I grin, grabbing black pants, but I'm still not convinced. My MP3 mix starts blasting old school Ani DiFranco. I stare into the mirror for a long time. "What am I today?" I ask.
"I am a poster girl with no poster," thumps my computer. "I am 32 flavors and then some."
And suddenly I know: I'm everything. And that's totally fine.
Faran Krentcil is a Trinity senior and a senior editor of Recess. Her column appears every other Friday.
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