Another school year has begun, and with it comes the requisite frosh mania. A very long five years ago, the first week of school was frightening, with its uncertainty and newness. While opting out of frosh activities (I am not a fan of icebreaker games), I still felt like every other new student: a very small fish in a huge pond—actually, more like an ocean. Eventually I became comfortable at U of T and familiar with all its workings. I also became progressively irritated with the frosh hype, which seemed more and more futile as the years went on. Now, in my last year (or rather, the sequel to my last year), Frosh Week is completely unbearable. Technically, I shouldn’t have to experience it—I should have graduated by now. I am one of those special individuals who decided to take a fifth year to finish their undergraduate degree. Yes, I am a “victory lapper”.
The term “victory lapper” troubles me, since we all know it’s just a euphemism for “lazy-ass student with no direction who wishes to avoid real responsibility for as long as possible.” At least, for me it is. At this point, the novelty of school, and especially first week hysteria, has completely worn off. I feel as though I’ve gained all I can from the university experience (from a non-educational perspective, of course!) and want to make year as painless and quickly as possible. As an experienced student, I have no desire to make friends or to get involved with school activities. All I want to do is go to class, get the most out of it, and then go home. This year I’m strictly business.
Any reminder of the start of yet another year is quite tedious. So tedious, in fact, that I wish I could take a long nap and wake up in the middle of October on some random Tuesday. I apologize to all those fresh-faced, bright eyed froshies who are excited to start their university careers, but I can’t wait for the first week excitement to go away (been there, done that, gained the freshman fifteen). Five years after my first year (and back to my normal weight), the prospect of enduring another full year of university makes me wish I had graduated last year with my friends. I assume there are many fifth-years who can commiserate. And it’s probably easy to pick us out on campus: we’re the ones with the sullen expressions and worn-out faces, the ones who look impossibly tired, rolling our eyes at the sight of any sign of frosh mania. Especially the purple guys—you know who you are.
