If 19 and a half years on this earth have taught me anything (a debatable proposition, to be sure), it is that any so-called "icebreaker" game will end in personal calamity for me. I have known this for quite awhile in fact -- since my first and, I might add only, summer at Girl Scout camp.
My idea of bonding with my fellow campers over our shared love of s'mores and Lisa Frank stationary was simply not compatible with that of my counselors. My counselors were members of the very rare breed of people who never tire of wearing their Girl Scout uniforms, complete with beanie and sash, even though they are well past the age for this to be considered appropriate. If it should ever be considered appropriate.
These sing-a-long enthusiasts insisted that mimed canoe paddling and frantic arm movements meant to resemble a shark attack would net me friends much more effectively than polite conversation. During these exercises, I usually managed to either poke the kid next to me in the eye, causing severe retinal damage, or push chocolate milk into my lap. Needless to say, I was not the most popular kid at camp. I began hiding away in my tent during the icebreaker games, downing Thin Mints and Tag-a-Longs by the box. And I started to hate beanies of all kinds.
One would think that my days of icebreaker anxiety would be long past now that I am in college, but this is simply not the case. The first week of classes is, in many respects, the most carefree of the academic year... unless, of course, you are a Girl Scout camp expatriate. If so, you, like me, probably cower when you go into discussion for the first time and hear your smiling T.A. say, "Ok, time to get to know each other with a little icebreaker!" You probably think about shark attacks.
I had hoped that this semester there would be no icebreakers -- that they had gone on sabbatical a la Britney Spears. But I did not make it past the first day of classes without encountering my first, twisted, mingle game.
I initially thought I had lucked out. My T.A. seemed sophisticated, relaxed and wasn't wearing a sash of any kind. But this seemingly normal person reverted to Girl Scout camp form within the first five minutes of class. She instructed us to write down things such as last CD purchased and favorite sport and make laps around the room getting acquainted. This meant that I had to admit 20 times that I have purchased the Ashlee Simpson CD.
Nevertheless, I thought things were beginning to look up when a classmate who looked somewhat familiar approached me to begin the mandatory information swap. I wasn't immediately sure how I knew her... then it hit me.
"Hey!" I exclaimed. "I saw a picture of you on my friend's wall last year!" To say my classmate looked confused would be an understatement.
"Prom pictures," I stammered, the confidence slowly draining from my body.
"Who are you?"
Eventually, we got it somewhat straightened out that a friend of mine had gone to high school with her and they had shared a prom limo. Our conversation began to turn from catastrophically awkward to mildly amusing, Seth Cohen awkward. But sure enough, in the grand tradition of icebreakers, my quest to avoid being a spaz was eventually thwarted.
"Favorite sport?" she asked.
"Wakeboarding -- yours is cheerleading, right? You were a cheerleader in high school, weren't you?" The girl was at a loss for words (but not for freaked out stares -- she still managed those just fine).
I tried quickly to explain that my friend had told me once that the girl beside her in the prom picture had been a cheerleader and that I never forget anything and it is part of my (socially inept) charm. The guy next to us gave me a wary look. I probably would have been more successful in convincing my classmates of my intelligence and social nature if I had mimed paddling a canoe and purposed singing "Koombayah" in rounds. My cheerleader friend walked away. I wanted a Thin Mint.
To be perfectly honest, even given the icebreakers and the snow (I really don't trust snow; before coming here, the closest I ever got to the stuff was purchasing the occasional snow globe), I am glad to be back in Charlottesville.
This is probably because when I was home, my parents decided to make me the laughingstock of polite society by giving me their decrepit 1990 red Cadillac to drive. I'm sure there are Cadillacs out there that are cool or retro enough to pass as cool, but I assure you this was not one of them. It was missing a hubcap and the windows were, as my mom so delicately put it, "finicky," which meant that torrents of water poured in on me when it rained. My best friend told me I was never to park it in her driveway.
One of my friends tried to make me feel better.
"Erin, now that you are missing a hubcap, you can really blast that gangster rap with authority!"
"Actually, the radio doesn't work, so I'll be blasting Ashlee Simpson in my headphones," I responded sadly.
I guess I should consider myself fortunate that "car you drove over Winter Break" has not yet been an icebreaker question. But I know I'm not out of the woods yet. I have one more discussion section to attend for the first time, and who knows what this T.A. has in store. My only hope is to go into class with confidence in my icebreaking abilities. And perhaps some Tag-a-Longs.
Erin can be reached at Gaetz@cavalierdaily.com
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