Columnist Fails to Be Hip After Much Effort

I’ve always known I would never be a part of the “”in crowd.”” My physique, my clothes, even my dirty, chipped nails suggest I would never quite fit in with the cool, hip students at UCSD.

Until now, I was comfortable with the fact that I had no idea how much a pair of Gucci leather boots cost (although I can accurately hypothesize that they probably cost more than every hair removal treatment I’ve ever had). Yet, something — or should I say someone — ruined it all. A houseguest with the exotic name of Aida (after Verdi’s opera) entered my life and threatened to change it forever.

The problem I have with beautiful, energetic and intelligent women is that they are extremely annoying. The reason is not just that they usually get every single guy who happens to glance their way, but also because they unintentionally (sometimes, at least) make me realize how inadequate I am as a woman.

Alright, so I’m jealous. But wouldn’t you be if you had a houseguest who not only hung out with Axl Rose a few weeks ago but also manages to squeeze into tight jeans without one single ounce of fat bulging at the creases?

Everyone has an Aida in her life. In fact, everyone should have one. They’re happy, bubbly people who also happen to have tons of guys running after them at every opportunity. Yet, what happens when you’re not the Aida? What happens when you’re just a shadow of an Aida? One answer: Wallow in your misery.

Until this New York emigre entered my household, I thought I was extremely hip. Fine, so I’m not being totally honest. However, I still felt like I had the potential to be part of the “”hip”” crowd, the crowd everyone yearns to belong to but which requires too much time and energy for the average person. Nevermind that I’d have to lose 15 pounds (although some may argue 30), have a flawless face (courtesy of a lot of too-expensive foundation), and also know the difference between a Fendi bag and a Prada bag.

I still believed, one might argue vainly, that I had a chance. That was until a truly hip guy magnet who gets into every L.A. club like a hot celebrity entered my abode and created my identity crisis.

Perhaps I’m being immature. Aren’t college students supposed to see beyond the immature games high school students play to see who is the prettiest, skinniest, tallest, etc.? Still, I can’t help thinking that all of you readers have felt inferior to someone either on this campus or off at one time or another, so therefore I excuse myself for making foolish comparisons to someone who is much “”cooler”” than me.

My mother may argue that I’m a jealous idiot, although she probably wouldn’t put it in such vulgar terms, but I feel like declaring war against this 24-year-old, whose charm managed to get her into a rock star’s home, to get free coffee at Starbucks (while I suffer and get only what I pay for) and to snag guys’ phone numbers like a spider does flies.

I thought I could learn from her and become “”hipper,”” in hopes that I too could lure attractive young men (psychos need not apply) while still holding onto a shred of dignity. I listened as she told me how to play the game (“”Act confident, girls, and don’t forget to be respectful!””) and watched in a mirror as she completed my makeover.

Voila! I was transformed, temporarily at least. And, of course, I got compliments as my “”teacher”” smiled proudly. Yet something inside me felt superficial. Even when I went to the mall and listened to this potential model explain to me how to wear clothes that looked good on my hips, I felt like a poser. This wasn’t me. I couldn’t understand the beauty of a pair of hand-stitched leather pants even if I tried. Worse, when I tried to bat my lashes at an unsuspecting gentleman, he looked at me with concern rather than desire.

Sure, I’m tragically unhip compared to this girl. But maybe it’s “”OK.”” I just hope UCSD students will forgive me.