While in college, it’s safe to say that most people find themselves in interesting situations. Especially when they’re a naïve undergrad who agrees to anything asked of them.

While runway shows were one of my favorite projects, I had a particular experience that was a little different.

My favorite runway show will always be the one that landed me in a gay bar.

A friend of mine from the fashion department worked at an upscale boutique. This boutique was doing a fashion show and she needed some extra models. Though I was very much an amateur runway model, I agreed to help her out. She gave me the information and thanked me graciously.

I showed up on the night of the show to learn that the show was being held at a popular gay bar in town. Having never been in a gay bar before, I was a little nervous. I took a deep breath and stepped through the door. Since it was before opening time, there were only a couple of bartenders stocking the bar. I walked past them and down to the basement, where I had been instructed to go. As I came down the stairs I found myself in the middle of a huge dressing room full of drag queens.

They all had on pounds of make up but were not dressed yet. Instead they wore bras, panties, and silk robes. No one seemed to notice me, but my friend located me and ushered me back to where the models for the show were getting ready. She explained that right before the fashion show, there was going to a drag queen beauty pageant. She shrugged and laughed at the fact that she had no idea these two shows were on the same night.

I looked at the other models and soon realized I was out of my league. Most, if not all of them were professionals. A couple of the other girl models asked who my agent was. They proceeded to tell me where all they had worked and what local ads I could find their photo in. Great. I could see it in their eyes. “Amateur girl, what are you doing here?”

As the night went on, I learned that drag queens take longer to get ready than most females. One of them, who we’ll call “Shelly”, told us that he/she had been there since 4 that afternoon. I was amazed how they all wanted everything to look so perfect. They really took pride in their appearance. Another queen who we’ll call “Terri” explained that this was his/her third show this week. Terri considered her/himself a semi-professional queen. The whole experience was fascinating.

While my own hair was being done by a professional stylist, my friend offered me a drink. She had made a special citrusy drink for the other models to have during show preparation. Because I was so thirsty I gulped two glasses before realizing that the drink was laced with vodka. I had drunk it so fast that my head started to spin. This was already a weird situation, so why not have a third glass.

My friend handed me my outfit for the show; tight black shorts and a red silky top. She then told me how “Arabella” would be doing my makeup. It turns out Arabella is none other than, the most glamorous drag queen in the room. Flaunting a lacy tank top and black mini skirt in his/her six foot frame, Arabella motioned for me to come over.

“Sit right here,” Arabella instructed. She/he proceeded to apply makeup to my face. I could feel that it was way more than I had ever put on myself. Arabella and I continued to make small talk with I looked down, seeing right down Arabella’s shirt. I saw a bra cupping two nude colored foam balls. Interesting. I quickly looked away not wanting to be caught looking down the shirt. When Arabella finished, I indeed looked like a drag queen. I thanked Arabella for the application and wished him/her luck in the show.

I can’t remember who won the beauty contest; I just remember how elaborate their outfits were. I couldn’t get over how nice they actually looked. My own show, the fashion show went well also. I remember being on the runway in a cloud of smoke, with Justin Timberlake bringing sexy back, and a large anxious crowd watching my every move. I practically ran off the stage when my turn was up. I could feel the eyes on me pointing me out as the non-professional.

When the show was over, I put my black dress back on that I came in, took one more look around the dressing room, and went out into the bar with my crazy hair and makeup still in tact. I was headed straight for the door, when a woman at the bar looked me up and down and gave me a head nod. I smiled brightly and made my way to the door.

None of the other fashion shows I participated compared to that one. It still stands as one of my favorite memories from college.

I can tell my grandchildren one day about the time I unpretentiously agreed to do a runway show for a friend who may or may not have mentioned that the show was being held at a gay bar on drag queen pageant night, allowing me to have my hair and makeup done by a man wearing a bra and fake boobs, all while being surrounded by beautiful professional models.

In college, I majored in fashion design and merchandising. I really enjoyed it. I looked forward to going to class (on most days) and was always ready for whatever project lay ahead. While it was fun and exciting, I never knew what I would do with this degree after school. After graduation I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember why I had majored in fashion.

In high school, I wasn’t good at most subjects. I excelled in English and grammar. The rest of the core subjects weren’t my specialty. In fact, I worked very hard to maintain my B average in things like math and science. My senior year I took art and sewing. These classes were easy for me. They were full of self expression.

During my freshman year in college I, like every other college freshman, was trying to find my place....and my major. I found myself enrolled in a “Fashion Basics” class. As I sat there, the first day of class, I took a look around the room. It was filled with girls dressed in fancy clothes with bold colors. Every girl in the room was wearing the latest style and trends, which at the time sadly was the “80’s revisited” look. These girls were so put together. I looked down at what I was wearing; an old sweatshirt and jeans that I had had since junior year of high school. It dawned on me then that I had not gone shopping for new clothes in a while. I was still wearing clothes I had in high school. And more importantly, I did not fit in with this crowd.

I had never put that much thought into what I wore. I had always just worn what was in my closet, how ever old it was. When my mom would take me shopping, I never noticed trends and styles. I had always just bought what I liked or what was on clearance.

For whatever reason, that semester I declared my major in fashion. Over the next three and half years, I transformed myself from slouchy and frumpy to trendy and stylish. My clothes changed with the trends, I shopped several times a week, and was always reading the fashion magazines trying to stay up on the latest and greatest in fashion. I knew designer names and labels. I knew what season clothes were from. I was obsessed with fashion. Along with my new found fashion, came changes in hair and make-up. The changes were: I actually started wearing make-up and fixing my hard to manage hair.

I started to feel better about myself and how I looked. With this new found confidence, I became more involved with my school’s fashion community. I joined the Association of Clothing, Textiles, and Merchandising, and was more involved with “fashion promotion.”

Before long, I found myself on the runway of several fashion shows in the town where I went to school. It felt good to finally be noticed; even it was just for a 30 minute show. I got to wear expensive clothes and walk the runway. Though I was no Heidi Klum, it was still fun.

One of the downsides to the whole fashion major thing was the stereotypes. After hearing my major, often people would give me the dreaded, “oh….” This “oh” meant “oh so you’re shallow.” Even the awesome people I meant at Campus Crusade for Christ would do a double take when I told them my major. I felt like some of them wondered how I could be a Christian and still be hard of the sinful world of fashion. I struggled to find a place in both worlds.

When I complete my own senior collection in my second to last semester of school, I had never felt more accomplished. Those who went to high school with me would have never guessed I would be where I was. I was never a fashion forward person. I was never voted best dressed. I would have never been the girl who would become a fashion major in school with a collection designed and constructed by hand.

Fashion became something more to me at that point. It was no longer about fitting in or staying up to date with trends. It was about being who I was. I had never been a scholar, but I could succeed in design and merchandising.

When I graduated from college with a degree in fashion design and merchandising I felt like I had really accomplished something.

I believe fashion can be something that is positive in life. Too many times it’s looked at negatively. There are the fashion stereotypes. The negative sides are the ones too often looked at. I would like to be a positive light in a too often negative industry.

I believe you can look like a million bucks without spending it. I also believe that if you feel good about what you wear, (you honestly feel good about it) then who are others to judge. You feel as good as you look.

With that said, I’ll continue on my unexpected and often questionable journey in fashion.

I am a self professed pool snob. I don’t mean the billiards game, but the swimming pool.

The reason I say this is because I had never had to experience the public pool scene until my 20’s. Every summer of my life, I enjoyed a privately owned pool without the added stress of the general public and their behavior.

When I was 12 my parents bought a new house with a giant swimming pool in the backyard. I don’t use the word “giant” loosely. My parents joked that the house came with an Olympic size pool (not really, but that's what my mom called it) complete with a slide and springy diving board. As a preteen, now equipped with her very own pool, I couldn’t have been happier. To make my existence even more significant, my bedroom included white French doors that led directly out to the pool. I realize at this point you may be thinking what an overindulged princess I really was, but I had never before led such a privileged existence. From that summer on through high school, my house was the scene for many pool parties. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted to do it. I was very thankful for my backyard paradise.

Before moving into the pool palace, my mom would drive us to the country club pool, where we were members, to swim. Though I thought of this pool as a “public pool,” it was hardly public. To swim in this pool, one must be a member of the country club, be immediate family of a country club member, or be one of only two allowed guests at time of a country club member. This pool was always clean and inappropriate behavior was quickly illiminated.

Yes, I was spoiled. Where some kids had to share their swimming experience with strangers, I never had to.

After leaving my aquatic privileged life behind to move to the big city, I realized that I had lived in my apartment building for almost three years and had never visited the apartment pool. Part of me was afraid of being in a bathing suit in public and the other part of me was afraid of what I might find lounging around the pool.

So on a sunny afternoon on the first day of June, I put on my one piece and ventured out to the apartment community pool. There couldn’t be that many people there; after all it was 1:30 on a Monday. As I walked toward the pool, wicker beach bag flung over my shoulder, I heard it. The sounds of men laughing, babies crying, and Sir Mix-a-Lot blaring from a stereo. I rounded the corner and saw close to 30 people splashing and lounging around the pool. I stopped at the gate completely frozen in fear. There was no turning back now. I was already here. So I stepped through the gate and started my search for a lounge chair. After noticing that all of them were taken, I pulled two empty chairs from around a disserted table. I picked a spot away from the table and set up shop.

After spreading my towel across the chairs, pulling my book that I brought to read out of my bag, and trying my best to make myself comfortable, I began to take in the sights. To my left were a group of girls about my age. They had on bikinis that could have been a little bigger, a stereo, and two or three young children. The girls looked like they had been tanning since mid February because of their perfectly tanned skin. I looked down at my own ghostly white legs and suddenly felt self conscience. While these girls tanned, their unattended children ran free in and around the pool. So much for the “all children must be supervised by an adult at the pool” rule.

Across the pool from me, was a large group of men in their mid to late 20’s. I counted 12 of them. They had taken most of the loungers to their side of the pool for what I can only guess was a drunken pool party. They laughed and carried on as if no one else was there. Their section of chairs was littered with beer cans. I could only imagine how long they had been at the pool because the amount of trash in their area. Some of them had jumped into the pool to play a rowdy game of volleyball. I heard one of the guys say that only two of them actually lived in the apartment complex. The rest were just extra friends. So much for the “only two guests per resident at the pool” rule.

I suddenly turned by gaze back to the group of mothers to my left when I saw a toddler, who I can only guess had been possessed by a demonic spirit begin to scream, stomping his feet. When his mother told him to quiet down, he angrily flung the cup his was holding hitting another women in the face. His mother jumped up from her lounger and took the toddler by the arm. Here we go, I thought assuming his mother was taking him to the bathroom to teach him a lesson. You can imagine my surprise when the mother took a chair from the table next to me, set the chair against the wall a foot away from me. She threw her son into the chair and told him to stay put. She then turned and walked back over to her lounger, flipped over on her stomach and proceeded to lay out while her son sat screaming next to me. I looked over at the red faced toddler sitting next to me. He looked back at me with tears streaming down his face, then turned his gaze back to his mother and began shrieking again. I looked over at mom and saw that she was ignoring him and no intention of coming back over to get him. I rolled my eyes and took my ipod out of my bag. I was so thankful that I had decided to pack it as I put the earphones in my ears. The sounds of Cage the Elephant partially drowned out the sound of the screaming demon child next to me.

Meanwhile, another toddler from the group had picked up the abandoned cup from demon child and started a rousing game of “fling the water.” At his mother’s encouragement, this toddler would lean over filling the cup with water and fling the cup so that the water would spray anyone within reach. I got to participate in this game once or twice, being the recipient of the spray of water. The demon child beside me jumped to his feet and began running in circles around the pool. I noticed this child did not have on floaties, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t a swimmer yet. I watched anxiously as he jumped around the pool, ready to jump in after him if he should fall in. His mother never noticed. Instead the group of “mothers” lit their cigarettes filling the entire pool area with a thick layer of smoke. So much for the “no smoking in the pool area” rule.

I then heard shouting from the frat party on the other side of the pool. I looked up to see that someone had pulled out a beer bong. The group of guys proceeded to drink from the beer bong, asking any female around to join them. A few tattooed girls joined in. I noticed they didn’t ask me to join their party. Oh well.

As the afternoon wore on, I was eventually joined by a woman about my age, in a bright orange string bikini, with what could only be described as “circus boobs.” Since there were no lounge chairs available, Circus boobs spread her towel out on the ground and prepared to lay out on the concrete. Suddenly, she was swarmed by the beer bongers like moths to a flame. I listened as these guys fell all over themselves offering her everything from free drinks to volleyball play and even one of their lounge chairs. Only the potential lounge chair caught her interest. She graciously excepted and within five whole sections was enjoying the comfort of her new chair. I looked at the middle aged, bikini clad, belly button bearing women across from me and shrugged. They too were laying out on the ground, but were not offered a lounge chair from the beer bongers.

Between the noise of the beer bongers, the unsupervised screaming children, the thick cloud of smoke looming over the pool, and the fact that the more beautiful people were offered companionship and comfortable seating, I had had my fill of the apartment pool. I told myself I would go back again. Just to see if my experience was a fluke or if that was the way it always was at the pool. I always knew that there would come a day when I wouldn’t have my very own pool in my beautiful backyard. I knew that one day I would have to grow up and except what I had. That afternoon, after my trip to the pool, I looked at my calendar and made plans to go home to visit and spend a week with my parents....and their pool.

Happy New Year. With every new year comes the excitement and goal setting for the upcoming year. Everyone is anxious to throw out the old year and usher in the new one. Whether your previous year was good or bad, everyone is ready for a change. Everyone insists they can be better in the year to come. And with that, along come the infamous New Year’s Resolutions.

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. I haven’t in several years.

Every year millions of people list all of the things they want to accomplish in the New Year. They want to lose weight. They want to be happier, healthier, and accomplished. I used to be one of those people. Every year I would sit down with my journal and list the things I would change for the following year. The list was never long. It usually only consisted of four or five items. Most years had to do with being happier, working out more, and writing more. I would promise myself that I would accomplish my goals, and for the first few weeks I would stick to the plan. Then, like most people, by late February I would give up. As a result, one year I gave it all up. My New Year’s resolution was to not have any resolutions. And it worked. That was the first year I was successful. It’s been that way ever since.

Instead, I jot down a list of things I want to accomplish in general and leave it in my planner. These items on this list are goals I have for life; short and long term goals. I cross them off when they have been accomplished. I only make a list to keep me at ease. If I have a clear hard copy of want I need to do, I feel better equipped to handle it.

You could say that trying to start a blog is, in a way, a resolution. It’s more or less a goal to keep writing. I used to write all the time when I was younger. I started in elementary school with diaries. I would write about my day and who I had a crush on at school. I started writing short stories to fill the time and to entertain myself. In middle school, I would fill notebooks with my thoughts on the world around me. I could write for hours and hours. Because my middle school days were filled with adolescent trauma and drama, these notebooks are the most interesting to read. By the time I got to high school, I wrote very infrequently. I was caught up in boys and being angry at the world. No time to write.

With that said, I hope to usher in 2010 the way I do every year; with no specific set goals to reach in a limited 52 weeks.

Here’s to a happy and healthy new year.