It was inevitable, I suppose. Spending five years somewhere changes a person. Boys become men. Baby faces grow stubble. Promising young scholars discover the joys of alcohol. But I never anticipated the latest change in me. In my last semester of college, it finally happened.
I turned into a college student.
The moment of self-awareness came Sunday. It was a gorgeous, unseasonably warm day, and there was no way I was going to do work. So I called a friend to go play in Library Mall.
And that's when it hit me. I looked down at the wind pants and fleece I was wearing. I looked at the Frisbee we were throwing and the beer we were drinking. I plainly possessed all the trappings of dude-dom. And it shook me to my core.
How could I be a dude? Just recently, I was a normal guy scoffing at those walking college guy stereotypes. My neighbors would walk down the hall high-fiving, sharing stories of sexual conquests and wheeling kegs-not for a party, mind you, just for themselves. And I would laugh to my roommate, saying it was like living next door to a Mountain Dew commercial.
So how had I gone from guy to that guy?
I frantically ran home. Suddenly, it all became clear. I looked in the mirror and saw gel in my hair. I looked in my closet and saw zipper-sweater after zipper-sweater. I looked back on my weekend: Jagermeister, Red Bull, cheering on a 17-year old girl doing a keg-stand. I was no longer trying to get women's numbers or take them home. I was trying to get chicks' digits and hook up with them.
Hyperventilating, I found my roommate.
\Joe, I need help. I'm a dude.""
""I know, Amos,"" he said, ""and I can help you.""
There's no hell like the beginning of rehab. Joe tied me down and left a bucket next to my bed. I began to sweat and tremble, as the dude in my system craved nourishment.
""Dude, how long am I going to be here?"" I shouted. ""I need to go to FAC for MGDs with A-Chi-O.""
Joe tightened the restraints. The next day, he tied me to a kitchen chair, pried my eyes open and forced me to watch ""Rushmore."" On day three, he threw away all my clothing, re-stocked my closet with thrift-store items, and then re-programmed my musical taste.
""What don't we like, Amos?""
""Jam bands, sir. And Usher. No more Usher.""
""And what do we like?""
""Political rap and indie rock, sir.""
On day four, Joe released me back into the wild. Dudes steered clear, but a new posse started following me. They wore thick-framed glasses, corduroys and needless sport jackets. They disheveled my hair. They gave me non-chain coffee, clove cigarettes and Wilco tickets. I thought they were just being nice. But then I looked in the mirror. Joe had turned me into a hipster.
""Sorry, I guess I went too far in the other direction,"" he explained. ""But I'm sure we can get that Pabst Blue Ribbon tattoo lasered off your forehead.""
In the end, maybe the experience taught me that it's easy to slip into a whole new persona without noticing. Maybe it taught me that playing frisbee and owning wind pants is a bad idea. Or maybe it just taught me that all college really teaches you is how to be a college student.
And dude, that's extreme.
Amos Posner's column runs every Thursday in The Daily Cardinal. He can be reached at AmosAP@gmail.com.
