Though this is my final go-around for ‘first days’ in college, the procedure hasn’t gotten any easier. For some reason, the small ritual that is the introduction scares the bejeesus out of me. I can get in front of a crowd of 100 people and (try to) tell jokes, but saying my name in front of 15 strangers is simply terrifying.

First, the teacher has to go around the room and ask the class to talk about themselves in the most embarrassing of fashions:

‘Alright, I’d like you all to say your name, where you’re from and what your major is,’ then comes the pause, as if the teacher is just thinking of this for the very first time, ‘and actually, say something interesting about yourself’.

My first problem comes from the smart guy that says he’s from a city, when they’re actually not within two hours of that city. Note to all of those people: Everyone is from a small city; you’re not the only one.

For some reason, the chief city culprit in these classroom misdemeanors always happens to be Boston. It seems as if any human from the northeastern corner of the continental United States is from Boston. Why is that?

One girl last year told me she was from Chicago. Having family and friends from the area, I actually made the mistake of asking her where she lived.

I thought, ‘Illinois can’t be that big, I’m sure they know each other.’

Of course, there was no connection between my family and hers, but not for the reason you might expect. Turns out, this three-faced liar wasn’t from Chicago. She actually lived three hours away from Chicago, closer to Milwaukee. That’s like me saying I’m from Philly, Boston, New York City and Baltimore without much traffic.

I always preface where I’m from (Millington, New Jersey, by the way), with the caveat of, ‘Well, it’s a really small city, very small, so….’ as if anyone actually cares how small it is.

Having two S’s in my names doesn’t help with the ‘state your name’ section. For some reason, I develop a slight lisp for that second and a half.

My real heart attack moment comes when it’s finally time to say my major. Heart beat rapidly skyrocketing, I’ve often thought about lying and saying ‘math,’ because it’s less syllables than ‘broadcast journalism.’ I doubt that simply, ‘math,’ is an actual major, but whenever this time of year comes around, I can’t think of anything other than that.

However, once my moment of despair has passed, I truly enjoy hearing some of the other majors this university has cooked up. I’ve actually heard a kid say his major was gym. What does it take to qualify for a gym major, I wonder? Classes like ‘Living in Your Office 132,’ ‘Wearing Air Pants to Work Everyday for the Rest of Eternity 255’ and ‘How to Hang Up Stupid Posters Such As ‘Your Altitude Reflects Your Attitude’ 482.’

The one I could never wrap my mind around was rhetorical studies. I’ve always wanted to ask them what it meant, but I’ve feared they wouldn’t answer.

Then, the kicker comes. Something interesting? Come on, I’m not interesting. That’s the thought that goes through basically everyone’s minds. I’ve actually said, as embarrassing as this is, that I play basketball a lot, as my interesting fact. Like I’m the only one who does that.

More humorously, when truly bored, I’ve even lied. In one class last year I was the son of a mechanic, so, naturally, I was very good at working with cars. In another I won a state championship in basketball while in high school. Not only did I never play a second of basketball in high school, I wouldn’t know a car if it ran me over. And my dad works in, uh, construction.

Once the introductory shenanigans have mercifully concluded, the only thing left for the heterosexual male to do is scope out the room for the smoking hot girls. God help you if you’re in a class with only 15 people in it. Your chances just went down about 25 percent. I know I’m not the only one who’s played the game of picking a lucky lady just in case your professor puts a gun to your head, locks the door and forces intercourse. Of course, that’s never happened, but I’m allowed to pretend.

One final note to the ladies out there: if you see a guy writing furiously on a sheet of paper during the introductions, he’s probably writing your name. Sorry, but that’s just the truth. Facebook is a scary mother.

Luckily, it all goes down hill from there. Assignments to ignore, books to buy to collect dust, chapters to ‘read,’ etc. God I love school.

Scott Spinelli’s column appears on Thursdays. He enjoys playing word games during class, such as naming a cartoon character for every letter of the alphabet. L is for Iago, X is for X, Professor, etc.

Published on January 16, 2008 at 12:00 pm