Welcome back to Ithaca, where temperatures and median grades are both in the 30s. We hope that you all are readjusting your internal clocks to the familiar cycle of sleep deprivation and retooling your brains to be able to listen (semi) attentively to a professor drone on about the pythagorean theorem for an hour and a half. The first week of classes always brings out the best and worst of us and some real characters who will make you wish you were back at home on your couch singing along to your Season One DVD of Glee. To track down these sorry souls, we sent out some crack berry patch reporters to profile their habits so that you can stay away. Far, far away. Glee
If in April or May you find yourself saying to someone, “Hey I didn’t know you were in this class,” you’ve likely stumbled upon The Bum. When he’s not sleeping in until one in the afternoon or watching HULU clips on his computer in bed to kill the day, you may be blessed with a bum sighting. These are rare. Really appreciate them, because there is nothing else like it. The Bum (oddly afraid that the professor will realize that he hasn’t been to class all semester) tiptoes in and with a hat over his face finds a seat in the back row. Entirely unprepared, he may ask you for a piece of paper from your notebook or for a spare pen to borrow. Beware! You will never see that pen again.
The Entirely Oblivious Snacker
We have no problems here with people who snack in class. With that being said, The Entirely Oblivious Snacker is a whole other breed. This is the guy who will bring a disgustingly bad-smelling Tuna sandwich and eat it in the middle of a crowded row. This is the guy who will pull out one of those new Sun Chips compostable bags and reach into it so often that you can only make out a vague word or two from the professor. This is the guy who takes out those carrots and ranch dip and proceeds to drip all over his notes and yours. We salute you, Entirely Oblivious Snacker, you impress us with new snacks daily!
The Overly-Prepared Girl
It’s the first day of class and you haven’t even printed your book list yet, let alone bought the required texts. Everyone knows the first day is a joke anyway — everyone except the overly-prepared girl, that is. To her, nothing is a joke. Don’t worry, she already has the class textbooks — she bought them on Amazon and had their delivery coincide perfectly with the date she arrived at Cornell. By the first day, she’s completed the week’s readings, whipped out her label maker to categorize her notebook and sharpened exactly seven brand new pencils. She takes the center seat in the front row and listens with a huge smile on her face, as she takes notes on the professor’s introductory powerpoint and synchronizes the semester’s due dates between her Blackberry and computer.
The Perfect Seat Hawk
We’ve all been prey to the Perfect Seat Hawk. This zealous predator will let nothing stand between him and that seat in the center of the row in the crowded auditorium. He glances at the clearly open seat on the aisle but decides that it would be too easy a target. He slides past it, shoving his way through dozens on his unnecessary mission for that perfectly centered seat. Crushed toes, ruined jackets and spilled coffee cups are unavoidable casualties in The Perfect Seat Hawk’s quest.
You’re perfectly adjusted in your seat at the table for your seminar in Rockefeller. There is an empty spot on either side of you so you can spread out the reading you didn’t do and pretend to take notes at the same time. Fifteen minutes into class, the door opens and in walks The Stinker. You can tell from the other side of the room that this student’s dripping brow, greasy hair and soiled clothes would not make for good company. Nonetheless, which seat does he take but the one right next to you. Good thing your coffee has a strong aroma.