The quandary I find myself in as a fifth-year architecture student is a contagious middle-aged syndrome that has instigated a plague-like epidemic affecting both my fashion and manner. Though I still go out during my semester in New York City, I have recently begun to prefer soft Merlots over countless shots of vodka, Feist and my dear friend Fiona over loud Top 40 hits and sweaters and boots over skimpy tank tops and heels.

My change in behavior has dismayed my recently graduated friends. They had hoped I would become the manifestation of all their unpinned college desires, reporting back to them with outmatched stories from my extra year of college, full of sloppy make-out sessions with that certain senior and questionable amounts of alcohol consumption. But, it proves not to be as fun when I am suddenly that senior, the oldest and most disillusioned of the crowd, and that I can no longer imagine prancing around half naked in 20 degree weather anymore.

A recent trip back to the notorious 14850 has only proven to be a testament to my accelerated crash into a pseudo, middle-aged existence. Escaping up to Cornell for the weekend, under the guise of “thesis research” (better interpreted as a sliver of hope for excessive college drinking), I arrived on campus curiously nostalgic for the sticky grunge of Rulloff’s and the creepy but amusing charm of people watching at Level B. But lugging my bag through Collegetown the night of my arrival, I was instead welcomed with a rude awakening as swarms of screaming underage girls in short jersey dresses congregated in front of bars, clutching Blackberry devices in one hand, CTP slices in the other. Popping the collar of my leather jacket to maintain anonymity, I quickly walked through College Avenue, reduced to the despair of a displaced cat lady — since when did I settle on chunky, warm knits and riding boots over miniskirts and stilettos with the obligatory bare legs?

As a naïve and hopeful freshman, I always believed I would retain my penchant for raucous drinking and dancing on tables in tiny dresses well into my fifth year. But I eventually realized that one can only wear so much scandalous clothing before comprehending the direct correlation between wearing near to nothing in the dead of a winter night and getting perpetually sick. Despite having despised those “fifth-year girls,” subdued and observant of the reckless behavior unfolding in front of their eyes at parties, I have now graduated to the same level of disdain for those overly perky girls, easily enamored by older boys who claim legitimacy through non-dormitory bedrooms and the ability to purchase alcohol. That said, my transition into roomier blouses and less enhancing bras is perhaps indicative of a new feminine confidence (at least, I’d like to believe so).

If Manhattan has taught me anything about an eveningwear dress code, it’s this: Sometimes skin-tight and skimpy should be reserved for the confines of the freshman year pre-game. And no, just because the default American Apparel dress is two-toned, it does not qualify as flattering unless your 17 percent body fat is complemented by a vicious belt and sky-high platform stilettos that do not scream Bridge and Tunnel. Rather than exhibiting flesh and skin to prove to others that you are hairless and worthy of being brought home, I suggest new ways of exhibiting what my older friends and I call, “Crazy, Sexy, Cool” (otherwise known as “Comfort, Stability and Contentment”). In the past, I have worn my fair share of scantily clad outfits with questionable blouses turned dresses, but as I’ve gotten older and discovered the comfort of seamless cotton underwear and flattering, stylish boots, I’ve embarked on a journey of reassurance that I can confidently strut the streets without slipping and flashing people as I have embarrassingly done before.

As of late, I have opted for more streamlined, complete outfits: a flirty blouse under a well-tailored blazer fit to my hips, cut-out ankle booties and matchstick jeans, dress with tights and over the knee boots, statement-making necklaces — and let us not forget, lots of sweaters. Not to undermine my undying loyalty to the short skirt and dresses, but what is thankfully absent from my wardrobe are the empire waist jersey dresses and faux patent leather round-toed heels that one would likely find on the dance floors of Ithaca. A cross-section of Collegetown nightlife fashions will reveal that clothing and bar vibe go hand in hand: casual straight from school clothing for Rulloff’s and the Palms, “party” dresses at Dino’s and Johnny O’s and a somewhat more acceptable dress code of casual-chic at Stella’s.

Despite my long absence from Ithaca, the trends have not evolved much since my departure. The stifling sense of fashion déjà-vu hangs in the Collegetown air like a guest who has overstayed her welcome. Or maybe, I have — as I am stuck in this paradox where in Manhattan, I am too young and in Ithaca, too old. But then again, perhaps this is what comes with becoming middle-aged: that I have become pickier and more sure of what I want and that I don’t have to dance on tables anymore to feel confident — but that a fluffy, hand stitched alpaca vest will suffice for now.