But I’ve noticed something that has become so frequent that it happens at least twice a week. I don’t know if it’s because we have such a large freshman class that doesn’t know me as well as the rest of the upperclassmen, or if it’s something else, but while I’m walking to lunch, at a club meeting, or in a popular hang-out spot with my girlfriend, whether we’re just holding hands, play-flirting, or giving goodbye kisses, I’ve been catching several looks. And most of them are of utter confusion and/or disgust.

After well over a year of being with my girlfriend, it’s not exactly breaking news that we’re going out. We’ve gotten looks from some upperclassmen before, sure, but it was never so frequent or so extreme as it is now. And I’m certain that these looks aren’t being given to other heterosexual couples, or even other interracial couples (which, unless they are well-hidden, I have seen none of).

It’s bad enough that when I’m home, I can barely bring my girlfriend up in conversation without feeling awkward. But to be on campus, walking down the street and holding her hand and being gawked at like we’re some kind of traveling freak show? Forgive me, world, for saying that it makes me unhappy, uncomfortable, and angry. Aside from physical differences, we don’t differ much from any other heterosexual couple. We fight, we talk, we help each other, we have sex, we love. Sure, we might do it a little differently than John and Jane down the hall, but the premise is the same. So why should we be treated differently?

I know for myself that being raised in a household where nothing but heterosexuality was expected from me, it took me a little while to get accustomed to the idea that people of the same gender could love each other, too. And when I realized I was one of those people, it was hard. People seem to think that it’s something that can be turned on and off, or that it’s something people are starting to lean towards now because it’s “cool.” But why on earth would I ever willingly do something I know I’d be ridiculed for?

No, this is who I am. This is who I’ll always be. And I understand that people might have a little difficulty understanding other people who choose this lifestyle. People like me. It’s not “normal” or “right” by many standards. I wish that other people, people who stare and flare their nostrils, could understand us.

I know that not everyone can accept gays or lesbians. But trying couldn’t hurt.

Then, THE WAIT. And running to the mail box every day. Staring at your application status page – pressing F5 over and over (refresh, refresh, refresh!). Until, one day that magical word appears: admitted.

Fast forward to September.

The move-in is over (your mom only broke down once, thank goodness). The awkward, “Hi, I’m going to be living in close quarters!” moment is over with your roomie(s) and classes have begun.

And an unsettling feeling set in. This place isn’t what you thought it would be. You try to love it – really you do – but it isn’t the right fit and you can’t seem to get into a groove. You know you could transfer but *argh!* you thought you were set! That the application insanity was done for good! What do you do?

This was my story.

I, an LA girl, decided I wanted to experience life outside of tinsel town and get down to my German/ Norwegian roots. Yes. I moved to Wisconsin!

UW-Madison was far too expensive, so I applied to a small private college nearby. It seemed perfect— a cute little campus, single dorms available to freshmen girls (walk-in closets!) and they were offering me a 50% scholarship on academic merits. Plus they had a consortium with UW-Madison. I was totally psyched—the best of both worlds!

Then it was September and suddenly my perfect little plan began to have some SERIOUS flaws:

1. Everyone was from a small town in WI, which was cool, but as a Californian I was a minor celebrity, which got stale super fast. I just couldn’t fit in.

2. I couldn’t have a car on campus and a trip via bus to the nearest shopping area took nearly an hour in transit time—and that’s once I made the bus. It came every 30 min or so. As it got chilly this became a major issue.

3. Similarly, the bad bus situation made taking courses at UW-Madison totally ridiculous. (Bye-bye consortium)

4. There was one prof for my major. ONE. Silly me, I assumed that if you were going to offer a major you’d actually have profs on hand. One prof doesn’t a major make (especially because he was HORRIBLE!!!).

The list goes on and on and on.

Suffice it to say that by the end of September I had decided to move on. I think that if it had only been the social thing I might have stuck it out. But the academic flaws tipped the scale. (Did I mention my French professor mainly spoke in English and would accuse me of “throwing a flying saucer into her lecture” if I dared ask a question?)

I knew that I wanted to go to a good grad school and I began to realize that staying at this school would be the best way to drastically decrease my chances.

I’m not going to lie—the transfer process was incredibly stressful. Getting letters of rec sucks when you’ve only been at the school for a few months. “Hi professor, ummm your school sucks so I’m trying to transfer to a better one.” Or even better: “Hi former high school teacher, I made a horrible choice in colleges and I need you to write ANOTHER letter of rec for me.” Even more, I knew that to transfer into a competitive program from my dinky college I’d need great grades.

Oh, and remember THE WAIT? Well it’s longer for transfer students—I didn’t hear definitively from my top choice until the middle of May.

But it was SO worth it. I transferred to GW in Washington D.C. and I looooove it. I actually had to study at GW (Ok, yes I’m a total nerd but this made me really happy) and my fellow students were similarly motivated. And, best of all there were lots and lots of profs for my department!

Transferring is not for the weak of heart. But if you know you can do better, whether it be academically, athletically, socially, etc. then you owe it to yourself to give it a shot.

Incidentally, I’m writing this during my insane apartment hunting in NYC—because I’m going to grad school at NYU. There’s a very slim chance I would be here had I not taken the plunge.

I frowned and scrolled back up to the picture. Hm. Come to think of it, her legs don’t look like they could be snapped in two by a twelve-year-old. But plus-sized? She didn’t really look plus-sized. I was perplexed. The consistent theory was that this “oversized” model was picked from the beginning as part of Tyra’s personal agenda to make reality TV history. Or something. Making a point that you don’t have to be skinny to be pretty.

It’s a great message, it is. Except this Whitney character really isn’t not skinny. But in the context of an industry full of waifs, she instantly becomes the fat girl. It’s like picking the hottest guy in a classroom only to find that he’s less attractive on the street among other civilians; you can’t base your judgment of a person in the confines of one element.

Further Googling of Whitney Thompson ensued, and my chest started to tighten as I searched for what size she was. I felt compelled to know, and I felt even worse that I cared. Why should I? This girl’s size doesn’t affect me. And I don’t want to care, but I grew up knowing to care because of the connotations of size. I care because she’s probably around my height, 5-11 (and a half, close but not quite six feet), and so whatever label she gets is probably going to apply to me.

Most of my friends probably have an average height of 5’4″ and I grew up having conversations with people who couldn’t imagine anyone actually being anything bigger than a size six. At my smallest, on a very very good day and with a very forgiving label, I’m an 8, but pretty much always an even 10 and a 12 for my work pants (tall girls, I highly endorse BCBG for suiting). Bringing that size up in conversation always gets a great response, the widening of eyes, then the consequent rolling of them and the “Yeah but you’re tall.” Like it never occurred to them before that a size ten girl isn’t overweight. But even if I’m not fat, I’ve been made to feel that way since I can remember.

Yes, I’m tall, and maybe you can’t see it now, but I’ve been dieting since age 10, and it took me till the end of high school to get out of the chubscout stage. And still, I wasn’t self-classified as skinny. You never are if you’ve ever struggled with your weight. I was felt and looked better, that was it.

You can see why I refuse to discuss my actual weight altogether. Good for crazy-ass Tyra wearing her weight screenprinted on a bathing suit for the cameras, but for me? Thanks, I’m all set. I’ll leave it to the imagination of the masses before hearing gasps over that sizable number, or have someone try to kindly justify it with my being a “bigger girl.” It’s all about connotations, alright? “Big” is not an acceptable adjective. It’s like telling a girl who’s naturally very thin she looks anorexic. You’re striking a nerve. People don’t have control over their genes, you are what you are and you make lemonade with those lemons of DNA. There’s no need to always say what you’re thinking; if you’re different at all, you know what’s on an observer’s mind before they state the painfully obvious anyway.

Finally, I find a website that advertises Whitney Thompson as a size 10. Which means that I could borrow her jeans, I am also plus-sized, and the mass population considers me fat. Which must mean that even I could be a plus-sized model… even though I’m not plus-sized.

If I were thinner, I’d be happier, right? Because then I’d be just like everyone else… and only comparing other superficial things with them instead of it being my weight or my size. So the media teaches us, every day. I wish the weight had never even been an issue. The girl takes great pictures. Let her model in peace.

At this point, lectures from former women’s studies professors are popping in my head, saying that the labels are socially constructed and if we didn’t buy into them, they’d lose any sense of validity they have. Writing a paper and understanding these concepts and putting the idea into practice are just not the same, unfortunately. Alas, I am but one woman and these things take time.

Much like the fashion show organizers in Madrid who only use models with healthy BMIs, the higher powers at London Fashion Week have taken steps to make the event (somewhat) healthier by electing to eliminate models under the age of 16 for their Fall 2007 event.

14 and 15 year old models tend to be thinner and bonier than their older counterparts, as many of these girls have yet to fully develop and create an even more unrealistic perception of what a body should look like.

While England is showing some effort in eliminating these prepubescent girls from their runways, they have yet to ban size zero models. Women 16 and up whose ribs and collar bones protrude will be free to grace the runways. These bone-thin models advertise clothing designed for women who are realistically, at least 10 years older than them and have fuller, more common body types. So why would organizers at London Fashion Week want to use teenagers and uncommonly thin women to advertise clothing aimed at a completely different demographic?

Many argue that the clothes just “look better” on skinnier models.

While this may be the case, the clothing won’t be worn by women with modelesque body types, negating the positive appearance it has on the runway. Consumers may flock to the designer’s stores to try on pieces that had looked tempting on the runway, but when they realize the clothes look extremely different on their own bodies, they probably won’t make the purchase.

There are many women who happen to be naturally thin, but it seems like almost half of professional models are plagued by some type of eating disorder. The public exposure of these abnormal body types sets unrealistic standards for women who expect models to set the definition of a proper appearance.

The good news? The fashion world is taking steps toward creating healthier body images for women internationally. The bad? It’s probably too little too late.