At some point this summer, between reading the paper to pass time on the train and then working with fashion all day long at women’s magazines, I realized how badly I want to be a journalist. At the end of August, in a last-minute decision, I decided to graduate a semester early to get a head start on my dream. In just a couple of weeks, I’ll take my last finals, write my last papers and say goodbye to undergrad life at Cornell.
And so that leaves me, your Monday-morning-I’ll-skim-her-article-cause-it’s-next-to-the-easiest-crossword columnist, with a goodbye column to write. Yes, that’s right, this is the last one. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is both my excuse and apology for any sentimentality that might follow.
I despise goodbyes. Really, I do. At the end of each year of gymnastics camp, I would try to pull the same maneuver on my counselor and all of my friends: tell them that I would be leaving in ten minutes and a goodbye wasn’t necessary just yet, and then just get into the minivan and bounce. Later, I’d apologize via letter (with extra Lisa Frank stickers to make up for any bad feelings) with the weak excuse that I couldn’t find them at the last second before I left. It might have just been immaturity on my part, or perhaps it was a bit of typical unemotional Carrie behavior. I mean, I did watch all of The Notebook without shedding a single tear. The sappiness and awkward hugs just weren’t my thing growing up, and they still aren’t to this day.
I suppose I’m approaching graduation in the exact same way: skirting around the sentimental goodbyes by leaving sooner than I (and anyone else who knows me) ever anticipated. After all, I’m Carrie! I love Cornell! I write about Cornell! I write about how I love Cornell! I abuse exclamation points when I write about how I love Cornell!
And yet, I’m leaving my beloved Cornell a bit ahead of time, without a job secured, unlike many of my future I-banking friends. I thought about using this last column as a job-wanted classified ad, but my editor refuses to let me put in a plug for anything. Besides, something about advertising myself in my own column feels a bit … dirty. Like what I write and wanna read more? Call 1-900 XXX-XXXX …
In comparison with other opinion columnists at The Sun, my tenure had been short but sweet. On a whim, I submitted a column proposal in the fall of my junior year. One of the sample columns I submitted, a satirical account of my summer in Italy, was called “Italian Women Don’t Wear Heels.” (For those curious about the column, which remains unpublished for a reason, the gist of it was that Italian women wear platforms and chunky heels because they don’t get stuck in the cobblestones. Even at 19, I was quite profound.) Therefore, if you have hated all of the shoe references in my articles, you can blame former Associate Editor Zach Jones for missing the warning signs and seeing some sort of potential in my fashion-inundated sample columns.
My sole intent was to write articles that I myself would like to read, on topics like fashion, beauty, pop culture and campus trends. Also, I vowed in my proposal to keep my columns humorous and upbeat, as I believe that one can only stomach so many political opinion columns in a given week. I’d like to interrupt this monologue right now to thank the columnists whose articles have also entertained me over the years. You know who you are.
I chose Kate Spade not because it is my favorite designer (I’m more partial to Miu Miu at the moment), but because I wanted my writing to be fresh, bright and feminine, the same qualities that I admire in the brand. And so, for over a year now, I’ve been allowed to spit out about 1,000 words every other week on topics that amuse me; hopefully I’ve amused some of you along the way, as well. From lingerie to stay-at-home mothers, sexy Halloween costumes to the best fraternity formals on campus, it’s been fun writing for The Sun.
I suppose this is where the thank you’s begin. Ms. Fink: thanks for the opportunities and the laughs. It’s been a great year to work at The Sun.
To my dearest Mexican and favorite editor: Carlos, thanks for your insight, bad jokes and patience. No other editor would be as accommodating as to change the time of our edit session because I’m returning from a wine tour and am not in the best state of mind. Readers, you also owe Carlos a big thank you, since without his foresight, you would’ve been subjected to many less-than-stellar articles from me. (Although I do maintain that at least one reader would have been interested in learning about my horrific manicure experience.)
Speaking of my mother, I owe her a tremendous thank you for not only her fabulous advice, but for her terrific sense of humor. I did say in a column that she had a hooker’s name (it’s Candy, and the joke will never get old.) And thanks to my father, whose support, emotional and financial, has assisted the growth of my writing and my shoe collection.
To my sorority sisters: thank you for reading my column, or at least picking up a copy and pretending to read it, when you’re actually just stockpiling the paper to use for our crush party’s latest paper mache creation. There’s really no need to say goodbye to any of you, because as you know, being a sorority sister certainly doesn’t end in college. And yes, that can also be one of many excuses you use in the future when calling me at 3 a.m. because you need a place to crash in the city: “But Carrie, you loooove your sisters!”
And to all other friends, readers, stalkers and creepy people-I-don’t-know who poke me on Facebook and want to know what I’m wearing next Halloween: thanks for the fun, and I’ll see you soon. These (Kate Spade) shoes might be made for walking, but they’ll always carry me back to Cornell.
Carrie Bodner is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at cjb56@cornell.edu [1]. In My (Kate Spade) Shoes appeared alternate Mondays.
Links:
[1] mailto:cjb56@cornell.edu