One of my good friends told me tonight in casual conversation that she’s had to defend me twice in the past few days. This is not the sort of announcement that I usually anticipate. Unfortunately it is the type of proclamation which I have heard before. I had requested the poison work quickly and so she bluntly explained that two of her friends, (I’m not very close with either of them) both expressed their worries related to the percentage of how much of myself was actually “there.” In less gentle words, they believe me to be “ditzy.” It is funny to hear the term I assign to absent minded teenage girls whose hair mass is wildly larger then brain mass, no twice applied to me - whose hair weighs very little, mind you.

Normally I do, and have - thanks to a past of blind insults - shake these comments off hastily. They seldom leave imprints. But, tonight, in the commotion of the moment, it really does sting. Not because some arbitrary stranger happens to think that my eccentric hand gestures constitute the qualities of a blond, but because someone I know thinks that. I’m not very good friends with the first person, but we’ve had conversations before and I’m sure she’s read my xanga which reflects minimal carefree ignorance. She’s also one of the more buoyant people I know - smiling and acting silly in her own extroverted signature way. I would hope that being somewhat of a kindred spirit socially, she would understand that first impressions should not revolve around how many times one speaks in a high pitched voice.

And what about the second person? We spent an entire trimester in American Lit together making jokes and discussing her life. Blatantly she expressed her adoration for my friendship, and after complimenting a poem, wrote in my notebook, “I wish I was smart like you and could write something profound.” Now, some few months later I have become to her nothing more than an “intellectual pretender”. As if I have gaudily claimed heir to the throne of superior reasoning. I don’t believe I have ever overtly made any comments related to myself as an intellectual, so how then could I pretend to be one? I either am or am not. And for the record, I am not, I merely aspire to be. I don’t pretend. If one holds the place of apprentice he is not thought of as a con artist but rather a humble student. So it should be. I am not, at least not in any large and penetrable way, wounded by these comments, though I do find them valuable as helping to establish a premise for self exploration.

I will never doubt the fact that I am a girl, and accordingly am guilty of acting like one. Perhaps this is why Lara comprehends the sum of my being so well. Through our shopping excursions and mutual appreciation for geometric kitchen plates complete with matching mod bed sheets she is fully aware that I ENJOY being a girl. I am, in my deepest whims, the epitome of femininity, the paragon for all women clad in turn of the century lace and armed with legions of love letters. In the nostalgic sense, I am fully mesmerized by all romantic ideals associated with the classical female. Although I refuse to support any idea of a “woman’s sphere,” so commonly accepted by both sexes historically, I am infatuated with the entire traditional female concept.

Someone remarked to me today that the women in Hemingway’s novels always seem to be failures. I quickly concurred: They are depth less and foolish - which is precisely why I love them. Throughout his novels the name Catherine is common, and I have always considered it the perfect embodiment of that tragic mystique. The name the name itself is almost careless sounding: resonating with an elegant ephemeron and connoting such posh phrases as “Hello, lovely, did you buy the wine?” or “But, really, dear, it IS just a dress.” For quite some time I have been desperately attracted to the twenties, more so, to the inane decadence of the decade. The shallow social endeavors of Gatsby are a horrid and wonderful contradiction, promoting an indulgent yet hollow shell of humanity mostly prompted by silly women. Perhaps I am a minority within my sex if only for the reason that I willingly confess confusion concerning my own kind. This, in turn, has transformed into curiosity.

Even mundane clichés such as slumber parties interest me on a certain level. I find some sort of odd cultural enlightenment through painting my nails and noting the careful way 12 teenagers can carry on a conversation about fat free popcorn for twenty minutes. (Which brings us to ask, if they had all the time in the world, what one earth would they do with it?) It’s almost a phenomena. Apart from the way in which I approach my own sex like a documentary project, I must admit that at times my troubles are mollified by a single coat of Revlon speed-dry. That by leaving behind the core of my aspiring intellectualism and adopting facades via fruit scented facial masks, I am freed of myself. Of problems. Of reality. I’m nothing more than a cucumber-eyed girl clutching lip gloss and discussing the ordeals of dating.

I have forever been very energetic and there is nothing more dear to my heart than simple amusements such as giggling in the company of a friend while feeling unstoppable bliss at the mention of nothing. Compacted in a scenario this would appear as me laughing and looking stupid while being perceived as having a hyperactive social life and absolutely no other inner profundities. Of course outward effervescence can reach extremes, but it is the most beautiful feeling to know that my “ditziness” is a result of being 18 years old and still capable of endless joy. So where do I establish a medium? Where is the truth between who I am, who I should be, and who I am thought of? I don’t know. I am afraid of duality. With certain people I act differently, I have noticed this for years but found few faults with it. There are layers to my personality; I am dimensional, convoluted, woven with undefined ambiguity. Every person accesses a new part of me, eliciting something intrinsic to who I am, but varied. Often I question which of these is my “truest self” - the pristine nature before it was diluted and diverted. Uninfluenced and infantile. Would I be incorrect to assume I was nothing? A blank slate? I am starting to feel as if I could describe my identity as “lost somewhere in between Rousseau and the cosmetic isle.” How close an affinity could they share, I wonder, a philosopher and his fetish for lipstick?