What Do We Mean by "That Kind of Girl/Guy"?

So I just impulse bought a guitar, corn dogs, and these black tights that are supposed to change a woman's life. (Because apparently, tights can do that.)

Except so far, the corn dogs are doing most of the life changing. I feel some sorta way about this.

Mostly GREAT. But also wondering if I should call my parents to check on my missing sanity. (What are parents for, right?)

My mom would probably ask how many cups of coffee I've had today. And I'd be inclined to say 2+2=not enough coffee! Because MATH. We're winning today, really.

I should confess that this week has been a rollercoaster of sorts--full of ups, downs, and the HOLY SH*T moment that comes right before the inevitably huuuuuuge drop. Believe me when I say that the real-life re-enactment of this rollercoaster ride is as funny as it sounds.

This post comes from a place of accidentally awesome conversations (which are incidentally the best kind.) These are the sort of talks that leave you wanting to jump up and down, saying ,"YES, YOU GET ME!!!" In a caps-lock-intentional sort of way, of course.

Same mind, same kind. Life gets messy. We're rolling with the punches like it's NBD.

The past few weeks have been filled with long walks where time ain't no thang. With misfit life talks and pumpkin bread. With crazy concerts like dance party what? With Shakespeare term papers. And of course, with more pizza eaten standing in front of an open fridge than should be admitted to.

You can ask if I'm "that kind of girl." (The cold pizza kind). But I think you know the answer to that.

Ask me if I'm mad about it. Spoiler alert: I'm not.

Okay okay, before you roll your eyes at me, let's rewind.

It's a clutch sort of curiosity when you realize how often someone says, "I'm not, 'that kind of girl' or 'that kind of guy.' It's a quirky phrase loaded with a charged 'uh huh' somewhere in there.

A stealthy Google search (amen!) will quickly reveal that Lena Dunham beat me to the punch line on this one. But seeing as she's charging $28.99 on Amazon for the answer, I'm offering my completely unqualified and unscientific opinion for *free! (shipping & handling not included*) It's a steal, on the DL.

"I'm not that kind of girl" or "I'm not that kind of guy" slips its way into conversation with a sort of nonchalant subtlety. It's rarely the main topic of conversation, but it appears most often as a way to imply what or who we are or are not.

How do I know? I've done it myself. And in the past 7 days, I've heard someone utter this phrase at least once each day. This isn't a philosophical study or a scientific hypothesis so much as it is a simple observation. As eager as we are to define ourselves in a certain way, we're also equally eager to enumerate what we are not.

Because heaven forbid that someone in the world define us as that sort of person. With all sorts of identifying tags from which to pick and choose, we begin to find ourselves straddling some imaginary line.

We don't want to be too mainstream. But heaven forbid that we're too hipster either. We don't want to be the girl/guy who doesn't care. But we don't want to be the one who cares too much either. We don't want to be basic bitches/bros. But whoa whoa don't get too ratchet on me either.

This isn't unnatural; the grey area is our safety net. It protects us from what may otherwise seem to be an unsavory title. And truth be told, it may be as instinctual as a defense mechanism.

Knee jerk response, like hello. That's a tricky bugger.

I get it. After who knows how many years of living, we--and those we know--have a very specific idea of who and what is allowed within the confines of "cool."

But in hastily declaring that we're "not that kind of girl/guy," I wonder what we lose out on. In doing so, we're never the person who is awkward or embarrassing or sick or irrational or annoyed for no reason. We're not the person who let the dance floor get the best of us or who Facebook-stalked a person of interest. We're not the one who double texted or who mispronounced that obvious word. We're not the one who made something out of nothing.

And we're definitely not the one standing in front of the fridge, eating more pizza than should be admitted to.

Because that would make us that kind of person. And really, is there so much harm in that?

Dear Sister, Even if You're Not

I envisioned this post as a time capsule of sorts. While studying abroad in Nantes, France, I decided that I would one day want something that would be a one-way ticket to an experience of memory, a memory of experience. I wanted something that would make me feel as if I was transported back to the moment when I sat along the Erdre River with my two bare pieds noirs (literally "black feet"), dusty and darkened from wandering barefoot. So without further ado, I present the letter that I wrote to the most important person of my experience--my "host sister."

Dear Mélissa,

I'm writing to you, but you will likely never read this letter. Mais si tu vois ça, n'hesites pas à demander à Nathalie pour une traduction - j'utilise beaucoup d'argot, mais elle fera de sa mieux. (If you do, ask Nathalie to translate- my English is replete with unique slang, but she'll do her best.) I'm writing to you to explain the thoughts that rest idle when the words have run elsewhere. I'm writing to you because there's no map to sincere gratitude that has sufficient instructions when you're lost in translation.

The words "host sister" find their way ever so subtly into my conversation.  The title comes easy now that it's slipped its way into conversation with friends and family so many times. It's easy, convenient, just a smidge endearing, but also quite amusingly incorrect.

We are not technically sisters. And while nobody would guess it, you're not part of my host family either. (Though truly you are considered such, more or less.) You are a student, renting the room for two years now in this house we call ours and studying at the same university in this charming city. Our rooms sit side-by-side and are linked by the bathroom we share, like many other things.

I love that we are always known as les filles (the girls) in the house. We've taken to taking meals together, swapping cheese and sharing bread. I never get sick of laughing about the time when we gleefully put ribbons in our brother's shoes on his birthday. I love that we'll both bemoan missing Nathalie's amazing pumpkin soup and tease the other if she does. I'm constantly amused by your endless love of coffee. And by the time you're on cup #4, I know full well to join you pronto. I wouldn't have it any other way.

It warms my soul that you rush to greet me, when you know I've had an unkind exam at way-too-early in the morning. You are the first one to ask me how it went. To tell me "ça va, c'est fini" (it's ok, it's over), when my lower lip trembles in response. Whether you knew that or not, I needed it more than anything.

When I bounce into a room, I love that you offer to make room on the couch for me. And share the blanket too. Blanket sharing is serious business in this world of friendship. I try to politely refuse every time so as to not make you move. And I laugh every time you shoot me a raised eyebrow and eye-rolling glance that clearly says "shut up, and sit your ass down." You know me a good handful of steps beyond politeness.

I love that you put my host brother, Cyriaque, in his place when he gets sassy up in your grill. I love that we'll eat seconds of dessert at any given chance because we rejoice in just how sweet life is. I love that you know my class schedule and that I know yours. That you're my confidante for all questions bizarre and embarrassing (and believe me, I ask a lot). I love the way you talk to your 2 year old (?) nephew, like your heart is so full of adoration that every word is laced with a love plain and simple. You're kind and silly, easy-going and always ready to answer my next question.

I loved that night you bought hard cider during our spontaneous trip to the grocery store -- "2 for tonight, and 2 for another night," you said. That we cooked dinner, filling the kitchen with music and soul-soothing laughter alike. I love that I uttered the words 'Ryan Gosling', and you took your hand to lips and declared, "Il est parfait!" as I lost myself to laughter. I love that we later hung out and watched The Notebook en français, with you reminding me to make myself at home in your room that sits mere steps from mine. I loved the risotto you made but loved the pride that shone in making it even more. I love that you asked me twice if I was forgetting anything before leaving...even though you knew I likely would anyway. That like my sister, you stopped me before going out, straightened my smile, and beamed saying, "Tu es jolie!" (you're beautiful). 

I smile from head to toe realizing how good of friends we've become so quickly, even with that transparent language barrier that tries to draw a line between two. I try to imagine what it would be like if I could speak fluently in French, or you in English. If this sweet companionship could be even better.

I love that I never guessed we of all people would be best friends. But I couldn't be happier that we are. I wonder if we'll keep in touch and what it'd be like if/when you were to come visit me in California. I think about how much you've given me comfort in being here and if I could ever do the same in return. I think about how much I'll miss you. But above all, I wonder if you realize what all this has to meant to me...that at the end of the day, I would be proud to call you my sister.

Love, Lexi

My Real Answer to "How are you?"

34 days ago, I came home for the first time in 8 months. I wondered what Georgetown would feel like after so long spent away. If it would be a paradise lost or a paradise found or some crazy little thing in between. Cross-legged and with this song looping on repeat, I found myself wondering if I should have some sort of plan.

But New Years and its knocking for resolutions came and passed; the first day of school went pedal to the metal; and for once, no plan seemed to be the best plan of all.

SAY WHAT? I suppose this seems straight up loony. It goes against all the normal rules of being an ambitious perfectionist.

Well damn, it's a good thing I have a flagrant disregard for normal rules.

No doubt, people have asked about study abroad--if I wish I were still there or happy to be back. Well hey there, life is our box of chocolates, friends--no need to choose just one! My transition has been one of rather surprising smoothness. Coming back from study abroad, I've separated things by place. The places I've been are incomparably different, but there's more to it than that. Georgetown as I know it has changed, but then again, so have I.

You see, my first two years at Georgetown were defined by polar opposites--by a fairytale freshman year and a sophomore slump. It makes sense that this year, defined wholly by me as I've deemed it, just feels authentic. I've parted ways with the categories I used to crave and am really just happier going with the flow. I'm doing what I need, doing more of less without doing something meaningless.

And that has made all the difference. I've found myself craving minimalism, going back to the basics as if life were the rediscovery of cheese pizza. I feel comfortable being in my own skin. I say this casually, but I mean it sincerely. I've been walking the line between self improvement and straight chillin'.

In the lands of self-improvement, I've spent a fair amount of time considering the people part of the equation. I spent a weekend with best friend C, just laughing about nonsense before her semester abroad in Cape Town. Days come together in due jankiness with best friends H, L, and P who know me far too well. New roomies K and E are the redefinition of funky fresh, with loving reminders that "donuts" and "happy hour" are integral vocabulary words. Couch talks with P have been vital. Lunches with Y have been wonderfully hilarious, and themed costumes with A have been a major sort of major success. 

{Can you guess the costume? Hint: it's Dr. Seuss}

I've realized how much certain relationships matter to me--they matter more than Sunday brunch, trips to Paris, corny jokes, Gmail, and really really comfy beds all put together. (Ok, that last one might be a close second...). I appreciate the people who are there when its convenient...but even more so those who are there when its not convenient. The people who take the time to hangout from across campus and from states away. The people who can see a classic Lexi moment before I see it myself. 

After a few years of slugging through general ed requirements, I'm finally starting to jump into classes that interest me. Plus, I still count every one of my dang lucky stars when a teacher speaks to me in English. And I could hug every, single one for never bringing up French literature. It's the little things, yo! Professionally, I've accepted an offer for a return internship at Google this summer and couldn't be more excited to see what the Bay area brings this time. 

For me, coming back (home) to Georgetown has been about doing things a little differently. I've made it my goal to meet new people. And in such an eager pursuit, I've stumbled my way into conversations about unconventional elevator speeches, the how behind happiness, and quantum physics (come again?). I've been realizing the beauty of place but also of experience too.

Side note: I still don't fully understand quantum physics. Really. At all.

Of course, I'd like to be careful to paint a charmed life as is so easily done on social media. I'm still dealing with a few fractured friendships and segueing my way into new life territory. There's still plenty to do and even more to figure out. For all ya'll who have been along for the ride, hey thanks! You make my day when you tell me you've enjoyed my ramblings. I've had a hard time sticking with journaling here, but someone last week reminded me why I love and need to write, even if it's trivial.

Looking to what's on the docket, there's no shortage of things coming soon to a theater near you. I want to start something new, to try a new restaurant or two, and to carry on with the farmers' market. I want to visit the Holocaust museum for reflection and North Rock Creek Park for a hike simply because I never have.  I couldn't be happier about next weekend's reunion with Google friends/resident Cool Kids on the Block. And you better believe I'm bonkers pumped for an upcoming spring break in Miami.

Make no small plans, or make no plans at all.

I'm finding balance. And just being me--an unapologetically free-spirited, barefoot dreamer (and hot mess). If you're inclined to ask for a normal explanation of what that means, my answer is this:

Well, darling, I thought we agreed that normal isn't really my style anyway.

What Nobody Told Me About Study Abroad

(Note: Reposted from the article in Georgetown's newspaper The Hoya, which can be found here with stylistic variations.) Immersed in the crisp autumn air of a Parisian night, I realize that this is kind of a funny story. 

I look up at the million shards of light that dance before me and breathe deeply, taking in the speechless grandeur of the Eiffel Tower. Pausing, I think to myself: “This is it! This is what I will tell people about study abroad – the revelatory feeling of discovering what only existed in dreams…”

And then abruptly, I stop. It’s true that this is dream-worthy, but it doesn’t tell the whole story about studying abroad. As I enter my fourth month in France, I reflect on this question often:

What will I tell people when they ask about study abroad?

I think about this because I remember asking the very same questions about study abroad myself.  As a Hoya, a student, and a dreamer, I have valued my time abroad at its fullest. However, I know that much of the remaining value exists in being able to translate this experience to life on the Hilltop—to both my life and that of others.

It is with this realization that I want to share something immensely important. Something I am quite frankly scared to share. I want to tell you what I wish I had known, but perhaps what you may not want to hear. I want to tell you what nobody told me about study abroad.

Strap on your seat belts, and grab a chair. Let’s do real talk.

Like many people, I had dreamed of study abroad since coming to Georgetown. I decided early-on that languages are bonkers cool; traveling is all sorts of amazing; and exploring a new culture is downright jazzy. So as junior year approached, I carefully filled out the applications and tackled the painstakingly atrocious VISA process. I chose to study in Nantes, France (the country’s 6^th largest city). And six months later, I stepped off the plane. Wide-eyed, awestruck, and wondering if I was in the famed Genovia.

Fast forward to one month later, and my life as seen by most people is nothing short of a French fairytale.

I’ve met my host family and learned that my dad is a semi-famous French chef.  I’ve made some awesome friends, many of which are among the 40 other American students with whom I’m spending the semester. Dublin, Paris, Munich, Bologna, Rome, Florence, and the French Champagne region dot my travel itinerary. I’ve immersed myself in the French language and started rapidly climbing the learning curve. The world’s best pain au chocolat is a daily staple. And I’ve discretely stepped into life as a femme française, forming a newfound identity as the Princess of Better-Than-Genovia.

This story illustrates the highlights of my time abroad, which has been undoubtedly magnifique. It reads like a flawless fairytale, a dream and a half, a casual frivolity. It depicts a tale without bad days or trips on the Struggle Bus. And it evokes an easy-breezy-beautiful-Covergirl sort of mentality.

But what nobody told me about study abroad is that it is not just about the highlights. It is not always “easy.”

I don't mean just physically, emotionally, socially, financially, mentally, or personally. I mean, every single bit of it. When I first remarked on these tiny ebbs of subtraction, people were quick to respond, "BUT YOU'RE IN EUROPE. YOU CRAY?" like they were shouting the final answer to Jeopardy. As if being abroad automatically means you can't feel anything but flower-crown-adorned happiness 24/7.

But bad days and personal struggles exist abroad just like anywhere else. Perhaps even more strikingly, being that one stands beyond the sureness of a comfort zone.

There may be days when you struggle with always feeling like the outsider. When your country, your culture, your language, YOU are now the minority rather than the majority. When you feel like classes are either an unbelievable “joke” or a believable impossibility. When the loss of a community of intellectual engagement leaves you without any raison d’être as a student.

It feels like the moment when the ground was yanked like a rug beneath you, and you promptly ended up landing on your tailbone. HARD. But even with a bruised ego, it’s as if it’s sunny and raining simultaneously: the rain smacks ya grandly with all it's got, but the bright moments put the starry-look back in your eyes.

Maybe or maybe not you’ll feel that nobody “gets you” in the inexact precision of your personality. You may be confronted with the loss of all things familiar, including familiarity itself. In venturing to the likes of Facebook/ Instagram/ Twitter/the Interwebz, you might be greeted with FOMO (fear of missing out). For some, maybe the lessons in solitude will manifest as lessons in loneliness. For others, there is the trying emotional investment of having a loved one elsewhere—of figuring out how to live feeling like the other half of you is elsewhere. For you, perhaps being understood in full is the simplest wish and the most unattainable desire.

In talking with others abroad this semester, every person remarked that they thought study abroad was “supposed to be easy.” Though most described the overall experience as positive, nobody described the semester as easy. And in fact, not a single person ever recalled hearing about these trying lowlights of study abroad beforehand.

Yes, I will tell you that study abroad is magnifique and for some, life-changing. That you can pursue the extraordinary and find life unlike the one you’ve lived. Yes, I will tell you that I believe it is 100% worth it and that you’ll never forget it.

But yes, I will also tell you that study abroad is not just plain easy.

For most, it’s not an endless parade of glamour and ease—a 4-month-long vacation of stars, rainbows, ponies, and absolutely perfection. I tell you this not to complain about a “hard knock life,” to lament an epic 1st world problem, to be negative, to be discouraging, to scare you. I tell you this because it’s what nobody told me. Rather, this is what I wish I had known so as to avoid feeling caught off guard or as if these sentiments were unique to me.

For me, study abroad has been nothing like I expected but far beyond anything I ever could have dreamed. Plans rarely go directly according to plan. Sass frequently goes through the roof; hair gets tangled; and life gets messy on the daily. It's not cute.

But you learn to make it your own. Through it all, life abroad paints the world in colors you’ve scarcely imagined. And the complete picture is one of highlights, lowlights, and everything in between.  It’s rarely perfect but always as it should be. It’s a whole lot of organized chaos, a whole lot of faith in yourself, and the reminder that, well—

It’s kind of a funny story.

By: Lexi Cotcamp, MSB ‘15: Reposted from The Hoya's (Georgetown's newspaper) article found here, with stylistic variations.

On "Hating" Blogs

To those who have decried the presence of blogs: 

I have never personally encountered one of you. But after speaking with a dear friend who is writing a (study abroad) blog, your existence has come to my attention. It is with this discovery that I would like to convey my sincerest apologies for the earth-shattering inconveniences caused.

I'm terribly sorry that you were forced to click on those links we posted. Utterly heartbroken that we decided to share the experiences that have impressed upon us a lasting memory. Truly despondent that spending a hot second reading a "friend's" account of cultural crossroads took precious time away from you watching Netflix /drinking cheap beer and blacking out (again? again.) on a Friday night.

It's a shame, you know -- deciding to do something you hate and then additionally wasting all that holy breath of yours hating the subject of the decision you made in the first place. We shouldn't have to put up with this! To hell with reading blogs, the rent is too damn high anyway!

So you say you shouldn't have to read these blogs?

You're absolutely right!

Indeed, you have the right to exercise your own self-restraint when presented with a blog link. Whether you have the capability to exercise said restraint is unfortunately not a question I can answer for you.

As for us--we who do choose to recount our experiences on a blog: we're right too.

We have the right to pen a life that is perhaps different from the one we live everyday, replete with the experiences that otherwise remain locked behind lips. We have the right to publish, as you have the right to read (or not). We have the right to be intrigued, pensive, funny, janky, corny, silly, stupid, nonsensical, morose, in d'em-down-dumps,  angry, shocked, excited, curious, and/or incandescently happy.

Because that, you see, is our write.

Cheers ;) -lexi

p.s. Voilà - tough love, but certainly not hate in any form. chill out, and let's keep it funky fresh.

Reason Enough for Friday

Today is soup & tea territory. It's a universal truth, and we're rolling with it..

The weather can't decide whether to rain cats and dogs or invite the sun out to chill with the bros.

I can't blame it. I feel the same way: all over the place yet neither here nor there. This is the first Friday in a few weeks that I've been at home in Nantes, rather than traveling. Home in Nantes? It's officially been 1 month here! Home is starting to feel like a comfortable thing to say around these parts.

Today is dedicated to the likes of French literature and American television, coconut mochas and earl grey, and talk time with both friends here and afar. And I'm caught between having so much to say on here, yet completely baffled by how to say it all. Ya feel me? This is a weirdly normal occurrence, and I chalk it up to being a bonkers perfectionist.

Yesterday, my head was filled to the brim with things I wanted to discuss: first impressions, the holy $#!& of Oktoberfest, my impending marriage to croissants, why I wouldn't call myself a feminist, and the absolute absurdity of TV in France. Nearly every entry sat neatly written in my head, but the intention to write bailed hardcore as soon as I was home.

Hmph. Some friends.

Instead, I'm finding myself on this lazing day just wanting to keep it light. We're hanging out in pajamas, looking at a random smashbang of pictures, and just calling it kosher.

After all, it's Friday, and that's reason enough for me.