Well, the weather outside is frightful (or it was until recently), and everywhere I turn, emblazoned on every cozy top and bottom is some proud proclamation of educational allegiance. The spiritwear epidemic is so widespread, I wonder how anyone has the audacity to claim we are a school with no spirit. After much deliberation, I decided to buy a sweater of my own. I may have to start trafficking cocaine or go without food for a few weeks to make up for the loss in funds, but at least now I feel like a bona fide U of T student.

Winter is far more of an adventure in the city than at home. True, I don’t have to worry on snowy afternoons about spinning out in the family car in front of my entire high school (it’s happened), but the walk to Con Hall is as much, if not more, fun. After skating through Queen’s Park and sprinting across the road (I’ve heard talk of putting traffic lights there, but that would really reduce the whole challenge of the freeway effect, in my opinion), textbook-laden students must then brave the treacherously unsalted steps of Hart House and the dead marshes of Front Campus.

Half the fun of going to class these days is getting there without breaking myself in some way. I’ve suffered several injuries on campus at the hands of the inclement weather, not least a spectacular fall which sent me, along with my Don and several of my floormates, on a field trip to Emerg at Toronto General with an ankle the size of a baseball. The resulting crutches and sympathy were actually almost worth the three hours I spent in a hospital wheelchair, facing a wall, with a SARS mask on. The best part was that comparing injuries proved a great way to meet guys, even if my ailment was somewhat less glamourously sustained (I…uh…tripped in a pothole).

And lately, guys aren’t the only ones that seem interested. Recently, I was approached by a (completely sober) female acquaintance and told I gave off a bisexual vibe. Not sure whether to be offended or flattered by that kind of attention, I opted for the latter but turned down her offer of a date. I was so excited at the possibility of my chances of finding true love being doubled, I almost let myself be dragged off to a club on Church Street with some of my openly gay friends. What finally stopped me was my deep-rooted fear of being mistaken for a drag queen and having my confidence shattered so much I’d never speak to anyone but my psychiatrist and Oprah ever again.

The ultimate confidence-builders, however, are the antics of my suitemates, who decided early on that I would make an excellent model. Outfitted with Biology goggles and a camera, they managed to get some snapshots of me in the shower that would seriously harm any future aspirations I may have for public office. But then again, at least I’ll have a portfolio ready for the inevitable job drought that follows graduation.

Samantha Roberts is a first-year Arts & Science student at Victoria College. This is the latest installment in her chronicle of her first year at U of T.