Lately, I have read so many articles about the “death of the date,” women my age complaining about how chivalry has fallen by the wayside in favor of the Saturday night hookup. However, after my first semester out on the dating circuit (and a semester freshman year too), I am going to have to beg to differ strictly based on the existence of one breed of male at Cornell: the hotelie.

Before I get to that, I need to explain how I arrived at this conclusion. I don’t mean to stereotype (well, yes I do, but I feel like I have to say that anyway), but let’s discuss the following Cornell types that I have experience with:

1. Artsies. I dated two, and I swear to you they both did Jedi mind tricks on me. I like things black and white, they enjoyed drama and overanalysis. One in particular was quite interesting: in most of our conversations he was generally able to convince me that he knew me better than I knew myself and wrote me emails in flowery beautiful prose that often made no sense. He always walked as if he had nowhere to be, with a cigarette in one hand and his ipod in the other, jeans dragging on the ground and the whole bit. He tried to explain philosophy to me, I tried to teach him that hotelies do more than play with napkins and donuts all day. His ideal date: coffee at Libe Cafe.

2. Engineers. I dated one briefly freshman year (he was fun and we’re still good friends, he doesn’t count) and was in a serious (way too serious) relationship with one for a year and a half that ended in a breakup that went worse than any other breakup in the history of the world. I won’t go into detail about the whole thing, but just take my advice here: avoid.

3. Frat guys. Oh, frat guy. Pretty sweet deal until you treat him badly and you are never allowed in the door of any of their parties again, and you can pretty much forget about his cute friend.

4. Finance guys. Shut up about your Goldman interview. PLEASE. And if you’re going to wake me up at 4 am to drive you to the airport so you can fly to New York City for the day for some Credit Suisse thing, you had better return to Ithaca with something other than paperwork and boring stories about Sales and Trading. Perhaps something you picked up on 5th Avenue?

5. Hotelies. Ok, here I go. I will admit, I was initially VERY skeptical of dating hotelies. These guys are smooth talkers and everyone knows that the typical hotelie is beautifully fluent in BS. I was particularly against hoteliecest after an awkward situation freshman year where something unfavorable happened and I had to see him EVERY day in EVERY class afterward. The old Statler Punishment; totally the Cornell equivelant of the “go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done wrong” thing our elementary school teachers used to do to us. Worst thing ever.

However, this semester, my tune has changed considerably. You see, hotelies are gentlemen. They know how to treat a lady. They ask you out to dinner instead of the usual “wow I had no idea you’d be at this party even though we discussed it via facebook messages all week” thing. One was so old-fashioned that he actually ordered for me at a restaurant. AND they know their wine. I asked one to be my formal date and he brought me roses when he came to pick me up: two red and one pink because he knows how I am with my pink. One passed me a really funny/cute rap (yes, a rap) in the middle of class and brought a bouquet of flowers to my house for no reason one Friday morning. After a few weeks of dating one (the pink rose one), it was my best friend’s birthday and our house in collegetown threw a party for her. My hotelie came, and not only did all of my friends adore him because he was so friendly and social, but he also was thoughtful enough to get my best friend a birthday gift. A true gentleman practices good manners even at a party where the guests are running around with $5.00 bottles of champagne and “Fergalicious” is playing on the stereo. Ok, I think that’s it for anecdotal testimonials.

Hotelies dress incredibly well, which is always a plus, and the typical hotelie generally appreciates and compliments a girl when she has clearly put effort into her outfit. You will never lose track of your hotelie as he is always located in a single building on campus and he probably has a Blackberry or Sidekick anyway. Plus, in my case, I was elated that these dudes still asked me out after witnessing firsthand that I am a complete disaster in the kitchen. This says to me that they know I’m pretty uncool and still like me AND that they aren’t out looking for a future housewife. Nice. Oh, and for those of you on the husband hunt (which I am NOT, thanks): hotelies are on their way to being very, very successful. Cha-ching.

So, ladies, take my advice and date at least one hotelie while you’re here. Trust me [unless you're a hotelie yourself and it doesn't work out and you have to deal with the Statler Punishment], you will thank me. And as far as chivalry and gentlemen are concerned? Hotelies are not exactly an endangered species. Keep the faith: the old-fashioned stuff won’t go extinct as long as these dudes are around.

Merry Chrismakkuh from Fort Bromberg in Vail, Colorado, USA!

Every time I come back to Dallas for winter break, I inevitably have at least one of these awkward conversations with a high school acquaintance… you know, where I explain that Cornell is not in Texas, that Ithaca and New York City are not interchangeable terms, and that yes, I am studying hotel administration; but no, I don’t necessarily want to manage a hotel.

At that point, I usually receive a somewhat bewildered and terribly disappointed look; this is the moment where my friend realizes that he will not be receiving a lifetime of complimentary rooms at “my” hotel as he had hoped.

“So, what ARE you going to do then?”

Uhhh… about that. Depending on what day you ask me, this answer is pretty much always different. Two years ago, I wanted to open up a jazz club. Within a year I had quit being a musician and wanted my own swanky NYC restaurant. Then came wedding planner, then MS Excel expert, then something marketing-related, and then spa management. These days, I’m leaning towards either writing, sales, or PR. I would LOVE to write for Food & Wine (Gail Simmons, please be listening) or to have a travel column in Marie Claire… but let’s be real for 2 seconds: I’m not sure kickass hospitality education translates into kickass writer in the eyes of the Anna Wintours out there.

I am at the point in my college career where it’s time to start looking seriously towards the G word and I’ll be honest… the notion of graduating and going out into the real world is terrifying. Like, as terrifying as Mario Batali’s bright orange Crocs. I need to have a game plan, people.

So here it is: I can write Food Lab Confidential: The Devil Wears Cornell-Issued Chef’s Whites and pen an Anthony Bourdain-esque account of what it’s like to be a student at the hotel school. That’s right: everything from an anthology of culinary class horror stories to a glimpse into the sheer agony of financial accounting homework; the sweet delights of wines class and free dinners at Banfi’s to the plethora of recruiters giving us full-time offers. My reasoning? If Nicole Richie can write a book with more words than pictures and Anthony Bourdain can somehow become a likeable TV personality, then I can do anything I want.

Ok no I’m just kidding. I have really come down with a case of The “What Am I Going to do With My Life”s (a mutant, aggressive strain of The Mondays) and what I need to do is focus on my summer internship search rather than my life’s calling. Stay tuned for more on that; for now, it’s back to rolling my eyes as I read Kitchen Confidential.

“and for a moment both of you believe
you can hear the city breathing.
you are both tired; you want to be done.”
-from “Rush Hour” by Catherine Hunter

Finals week. Around 10:00 tonight, I stuck my business law final in the digital drop box in the Hotel School’s computer lab. Three hours of stressing and mulling over contracts and agency principles compressed into 55 stupid kilobytes. Dragged, dropped, and done. Out of my hands.

There is no place more depressing than Cornell at the end of fall finals. The campus has almost completely emptied, the air is cold and damp, and the nights are completely still. You’re tired. You’re sick. Your eyes sting. Your best friends have gone home. Your room is littered with stacks of paper, heaps of laundry, and an open suitcase. And you have to be in Syracuse in 12 hours to catch a flight.

Texas… I am coming home to you. And not a moment too soon.

Good news: I got a part in the Vagina Monologues! Even though I was a little hesitant to audition and didn’t exactly have high hopes for good results, everything worked out surprisingly well and I am pumped to get started. I can’t believe there was even a time where I hesitated.

Speaking of hesitation, it’s been quite a theme in my life these days. From relationships to extra-curriculars, there seems to be this recurring issue with taking the next step beyond comfort zones. I recently was in a pretty complicated situation where hearts were saying one thing and heads were saying another. So much time was spent talking about emotions and possibilities that eventually the whole opportunity just evaporated and it just sucked. Don’t make that mistake. Usually when the ball is in my court, though, I end up weighing options for a while before ultimately throwing caution to the wind and taking the risk. Guess what? 9 times out of 10, it has worked out for the best and I wonder why I even hesitated at all.

It’s kind of like those makeover shows (What Not to Wear, How Do I Look, etc) where there is this girl in desperate need of a style overhaul; she is sporting some type of velvet, perhaps some faux fur, and usually a breed of mom jeans. The stylist gets her to try on all these great clothes and she looks fabulous; however, she is weirdly attached to her footwear– in one case, it was these awful black chunky Gene Simmons boots; in another case, worn-out Teva sandals. She loves said boots or Tevas so much that despite the stylist’s best efforts to get this chick to try on a great pair of pointy black heels, she simply refuses. Every viewer in the US knows that if she would just try on the damn heels, she would look absolutely smokin hot… yet she is hesitating to let go of her atrocious footwear. Why? Because she is sticking with what feels right and it’s difficult for our girlfriend to step outside of herself and evaluate her shoe situation.

Lo and behold, the show ends with a “6 Months Later” segment where the former boots/Tevas fanatic now owns about 30 pairs of pointy black heels. She struts her stuff down the streets of her suburb looking hot like nobody’s business. Why? Because she let go of what was comfortable and took a risk by trying something new.

Here’s what I’m getting at: you are only here for four years and college is the perfect time to explore; make these days count. There’s no time for hesitation: if you try it, you just might like it. Put your faith in something even if it contains some logical flaws. Say yes to that boy who asked you on a date. Do something that’s not your style. Give someone a second chance. Go blonde. Apply for a job you don’t think you’re going to get. Ignore your head for once and go with your heart. Go to Barcelona for the semester. Take a class way outside your field of study. Try out for the Vagina Monologues.

Nobody is saying you have to get to college and pull a Summer Roberts from The OC and morph from California Daddy’s Girl to Crunchy Granola Treehugger… but for God’s sakes, just try on the damn pointy black heels.

(And if it doesn’t turn out to be fabulous, so what? You always thought those shoes were ugly anyway).

For the past few years, Cornell’s Women’s Resource Center has put on a production of The Vagina Monologues to promote V-Day. This year, a Kappa Delta sister of mine is directing it; so, you know… why not try something new and go audition?

Let me just preface this by letting you know that I am not an actress of any kind; my last acting gig involved gaucho pants and a glittery MTV shirt for my role as an MC named LaLa for KD’s recruitment skit last year. My lines included “shake that laffy taffy” and “hellz yeah” so, uh, good one. In fact, I am so bad at acting that, in high school, whenever I’d try to lie to my mother about having my homework done, she would laugh in my face.

Fortunately, no prep was necessary for the VM audition; all we had to do was show up and read a monologue in front of the group and be our fabulous uninhibited selves. Fine. I can public speak. I’m a tour guide. I can do this. Talking about Ezra Cornell… talking about a vagina… all the same, right? (That was a joke, don’t you dare quote me Daily Sun). If nothing else, it will be a learning experience.

When I got to the front of the room clutching a monologue with a cornell.edu-inappropriate title in my shaky hand, I was as nervous as poor Ashlee Simpson at the Orange Bowl last year (and likely performed just as badly but that’s neither here nor there). If anyone is familiar with the Vagina Monologues, you know the content– I mean, I had reasonable expectations when I walked in, but dramatically discussing the vajayjay in front of dozens of people (many of whom I knew) is something I had never, ever ever ever imagined myself doing.

Ok, so you know how when you leave your house rocking sweatpants with no shower, no makeup, and a general hot mess aura about you, you just happen to run into every single person you don’t want to see? The list of close encounters usually includes your ex boyfriend and his new girlfriend, your crush, your crush’s parents, and the recruiter you interviewed with yesterday. Oh yes, you’ve all experienced it and you’d agree that it is one of those simply inevitable, terrible facts of life… but then you walk away and think, “hey, whatever, they saw the real me. Who cares?” Ok, so that’s what this audition felt like: at first I was absolutely mortified while I was up there, but then I was just like… hey, whatever, I’m just gonna do this thing.

And so I did. I got through the monologue with no major disasters, no giggling, and no blushing; and that, darlings, is how I got over my fear of talking about vaginas in front of a large audience. You can all take a lesson from this: just go for it.