I hated beer, my jeans were too loose and I was scared of dancing in public. It’s hard to remember much else from four years ago because so much in my life has changed (e.g., I would now kill to be able to fit into those jeans). I arrived at Cornell with the self-image of a true high school nerd. I had been to band camp, five consecutive math fairs and every midnight Star Wars premier. Left to my own devices, I probably would have spent my freshman year hiding in my dorm room with my stuffed animals, leaving only for classes and my a cappella group’s rehearsals. Thankfully, two things saved me from this disturbing fate: a preference for really geeky guys shocked by the prospect of a girl noticing them let alone hooking up with them, and my incredible roommate.

Skyler single-handedly brought my inner party girl to (social) life. She took me shopping for clothing that hadn’t been made for 300-pound Puritans, dragged me to parties full of freshman-hungry frat boys and even pretended to think I was a good dancer. Because of her, I knew what to do, where to go and what to wear when I went there, which, for the next part of the story, was a bikini. I had only just gotten used to the idea of exposing cleavage when Sky informed me that we were going to tan on Stone Bridge by Beebe Lake because the hot guy she met earlier that day said it was the place to be. What he didn’t say was that it was the place he would be ... with another freshman girl.

Sky was way into flirt mode as I was introduced to Jess, a redhead so pretty that I assumed she had to be a bitch. To my surprise, not only was she really nice, but she, like us, lived in Donlon. And so, after the requisite five minutes of Jewish geography, we made plans to go sake bombing with our roommates later that week. I met her roommate before our planned session of underaged inebriation, however, in the dorm room of my new favorite guy friend. I was just going over there to watch the Giants game, something that had become a weekly ritual for me of which Skyler did not approve, when I discovered that I was, for once, not the only girl present. Marisa, who was apparently dating my friend, seemed to be my complete antithesis: her perfectly applied eye-liner and smooth flat-ironed hair next to my chipped nail-polish and curly pony-tail; her delicate sipping of Fiji water next to my wiping beer-can residue on my pant leg. If you had asked me then if me, my social butterfly of a roommate, the intimidating beauty from the bridge and this poised girl next to me had anything in common, I would have laughed in your face ... or at least said a fervid “no.”

But, it’s amazing how a little alcohol can bring people together. By the second sake bomb, I barely recognized the refined girl from the football game, who, for the record, could chug a beer faster than any one of us; I discovered that Jess was not as intimidating when belting out “A Whole New World” at the top of her lungs; and I was convinced that the three of them were the coolest girls I’d ever met. Not only would they become the best friends I would ever have, my future roommates and sorority sisters, but soon, they would be the co-stars of my column in The Sun.

Between my writing a sex column, our endless amounts of boy drama and — clearly the most important — our four different hair colors, the Sex and the City parallel is almost too obvious to acknowledge. They’ve been my real-life, college-aged, slightly less designer-labeled, but no less fabulous, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte (although, to be honest, I do relate to Miranda’s character the most, but I’ll go with it for the sake of the metaphor). If you’ve read my columns over the years, you know these girls a lot better than you think. For instance, “Chloe” from the “Eating Out at Cornell” article and “Brooke” from “Insert Title Here — Or Don’t” were Sky and Marisa, respectively. And “60 Guys and Counting”? You think I did all that on my own? Wait ... don’t answer that.

Even aside from all I was able to learn from their lives, it is because of these girls that I had a life of my own to write about. I can’t imagine what college would have been like for me if not for Skyler’s confidence-boosting companionship, Marisa’s comforting, listening ears, or Jess’s unwaveringly honest advice-giving. Like Carrie’s loyal friends, my friends, through thick and thin, have been there for me throughout it all. From boyfriends to ex-boyfriends, articles left to the last minute, birthdays, hospital visits, trips to the impound lot and even fashion emergencies, there’s four years worth of memories that would take much more than six seasons to cover.

I know it’s more than a little clichéd to compare your group of friends to the girls on Sex and the City. In fact, as I wrote this last article, I found myself tempted to use a lot of clichés about college and friendships. But as I thought about it, I couldn’t help but wonder: Is it necessarily such a bad thing that I had so much fun in college that it feels similar to the fabulous lives of Carrie and her friends? Maybe so many girls relate to and love Sex and the City precisely because it’s relatable. Maybe the clichés are clichéd because they’re true.

The difference between the girls on the show and the girls in my life is that my friends are real, which is obvious, of course, but has a less obvious meaning. I didn’t just watch them on T.V. and wish that I could have friends like them or that my life could be so much fun. I did have friends like them and it was that much fun. What I’ll remember about college, what I’ll look back on, and what I’ll take with me when I leave isn’t so much a “what,” but a “who.” I feel lucky to have had a college experience that even resembles the cliché. They’re the three best things that ever happened to me, and my columns never came close to doing them justice. We’ll never be the girls of Sex and the City, but they’re the girls of my life at Cornell, and to me, that’s better.