Reading period, schmeading period!

Princeton, I'm calling you out: Reading Period is a bait-and-switch. You lure us to the University with this phrase that gloriously promises books for books' sake, Reading-Rainbow style. As a pre-frosh I harbored fantasies of a Reading Period curled up around the fire with the latest "Goosebumps". Instead, you fill our time with mandatory "class meetings," problem sets, and "optional" review sessions, providing a catch-all for professors to assign anything they didn't have a chance to or simply didn't feel like dealing with over the course of the semester. Final exams barely concealed as "final exercises?" You got it. Random group project with THAT KID from precept? You know it!

With such a melange of academic activities, perhaps it's no wonder that three types of student have emerged to cope with the season's diverse challenges. The first is what I term the "Reading Period Champion." The Champion, burdened by three, four or even five papers, puts his nose to the cold, dank grindstone of Firestone Library - suffering in silence, perhaps, but more often complaining to all who will listen, fishing for sympathy. "This is literally the worst week of my life," he cries pitifully, "even worse than when my dog ran away and ‘The West Wing' got canceled." Typically a humanities major, the Champion disappears for a week and surfaces only when sufficiently edgy, unpleasant or in need of Red Bull. One of my Champion friends even sported a few gray hairs last year. While the Champion may be superficially admired by others, beneath the surface they feel uncomfortable, wondering whether he really has so much work or just likes the attention.

At the opposite end of the spectrum stands the "Whateverer." The Whateverer has max one paper over Reading Period, perhaps due to a heavy finals schedule or masterful course selection. The Whateverer, when in contact with a whining Champion or if reminded of the week's solemnity, is liable to roll her eyes impatiently and say (or, for the polite sort, think), "It's only Reading Period ... whatever," going off on her merry way to watch "Heroes" or take a nap. At night, the Whateverer can be spotted at the Street, enjoying a drink or eight with some friends or meeting new ones at Bicker parties. A free spirit, the Whateverer should be studying, since she will get her comeuppance later on. For now, though, she doesn't care; she'd rather corrupt the third category of student.

That, of course, is the "Drifter." A devoted dabbler, the Drifter has a couple of papers to write (including one for the obligatory Pass/D/Fail class), which he should be working on, as well as a couple of tests to study for. And yet, unsatisfied by either option, the Drifter roams campus like a rudderless hobo, tempted by the Whateverer's impossible sociability, haunted by the guilt of inadequacy in the Champion's shadow. When not at Starbucks, he studies outside Cafe Viv, centrally located for urgent study breaks and maximally exposed to distraction (for optimal working conditions). In the end, he accomplishes too little and enjoys himself not enough, coming away from Reading Period empty-handed, wracked by indecision, malaise and a mild hangover.

It doesn't have to be this way. Tons of the other colleges survive without Reading Period. Why should Princeton create a campus of Champions, Whateverers and Drifters (other than because Harvard does)? Couldn't January be used more effectively? We might have class, or extra vacation or a true "Reading Week," when I could finally curl up and attack my unnecessarily large pile of unread "Goosebumps". As I sit in Frist Campus Center slowly sippin' my frap, eavesdropping on the girls at the next table and writing this column instead of my papers (I'm a Drifter), I wonder whether such a world of reading rainbows and gumdrops is even possible. It may not be - but could we give it a shot?

Matt Kandel is an economics major from Boca Raton, Fla. he can be reached at mkandel@princeton.edu.