I firmly believe that the java we drink is a clear indicator of the level of stress in our lives. Those with little on their minds are content with ordering "just a coffee," while those whose brains are already full of tasks and to-do lists turn getting caffeine into a complex, multi-step procedure. So whenever I hear myself ordering a "large skim-milk sugar-free vanilla latte to go," I know I'm about to reach breaking point.
A few weeks ago, I was ordering my drink of choice at Second Cup. After reciting my lengthy order, I overheard the man at the cash call out "one McGill Girl!" Before I could figure out why he was announcing my presence, the girl preparing the drinks echoed "one McGill Girl, coming up!" I looked at her with incredulity and asked, "Is that what you actually call that drink?" She laughed and condescendingly replied, "Oh, don't worry, honey. I'm a McGill girl, too." I bit my tongue, but what I wish I had said is, "You may be a McGill Girl, but I am a girl who goes to McGill."
This may sound like a childish debate in semantics, brought on by the fact that I had not yet ingested the aforementioned caffeine. But there is a vast difference between the girl who goes to McGill and the notorious McGill Girl, and I will not be confused with the latter.
The McGill Girl is a composite of stereotypes put together, as far as I can tell, by Montreal natives, Concordia students and McGill students who have grown tired of seeing clones all around them. I doubt that there is a single girl on campus that possesses all of these numerous characteristics, but I know that she exists as a much hated cliché.
The McGill Girl can be immediately picked out of a crowd by her long brown hair (with the requisite side-swept bangs) and her giant sunglasses that would put Jackie O to shame. Her Lululemon track pants are ever so carefully juxtaposed against her designer handbag, and regardless of the weather, her feet are rarely seen in anything other than Uggs.
