Worcester Polytechnic Institute - Peddler Yearbook (Worcester, MA)

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The Shortest Distance The shortest distance between two points, rumor has it, is a line. Lines. They seem to be a part of every day life. Though not always having the sheer magnitude of those that fill the sidewalks of, say, the Highland Street Renaissance celebration, the crowds of people that one might run into during the daily transpirations of acadamia here on the Hill still present quite a challenge to our continued sanity. There are the usual protracted queues, found usually during lunch or suppertime in the wedge, or on the third floor of Boynton Hall waiting to cash their checks on a Friday afternoon. When you are in a situation like that, it is of a scale that is meekly accepted. Okay, what ' s five minutes? I ' ll wait. And you do wait, and the line moves, and whatever it was that awaited you at the end is taken care of. Next on the scale of line-dom are those for films and such. They indicate that a hefty chunk of time will go by before progress occurs. It is here that the vestiges of crowd psychology sets in. Invariably, someone will walk up to the end of the formation, disbelief registering on his or her face. Thoughts race through the mind. Self-defensive mechanisms warning not to get hopes up too high set in. Whether you are in line to see the 9:30 showing of Risky Business or get tickets for Winter Weekend, it ' s difficult to argue with the voice that pipes in: I bet they ' ll sell out just as I step up to the window ... Social activities spawn lines because people are buying a luxury and they accept, to a certain extent, the risks involved. Sure time will be wasted standing around, but it is the individual ' s choice to be there. Therein lies the difference between the so-called social line and the much less palatable academic line. Four times per year (or sixteen times in the average college career) academic lines proliferate wildly. For the lucky ones who look down at their schedules with self-satisfied sneers, they may never have to endure the agony of the course change period, the long hours of standing in my square foot of allotted floor space, craning my neck to get an elusive glimpse of the middle chalkboard as Van-A changes the 199 to 200 for the personal finance class I had my heart set on. Nothing can compare to the exhilaration and subsequent despair of firmly pulling open the doors of Alden Hall as the morning sun streams in through the windows, thinking that somehow the crowd has been beaten and hearing my jaw thud dully on the floor as the image of mass humanity hits my eyes. Numbly, I enter the formation. All thoughts of seeing the morning sun again are forgotten. Minutes crawl by. An hour comes and goes. I ' ve moved three whole inches. A glance behind is rewarded with the small consolation that ten more have joined the row and will probably have a longer wait. Inevitably someone says Looks like we got here just in time ... Waiting lists can add an interesting element of suspense to the course change period. All that one needs is a little white slip of paper from scheduling saying you are in the class and all your problems are over. Without the slip of paper, however, you are subject to the twists and turns of probability. Hmmm . .. How many in front of me want to sign up for ES-2610? Three spots are left. Four people before me. The tension mounts as I creep closer. Finally, just as I am in grasping range of the table, the course is filled and I dejectedly register for a dismal second choice and wander back to check my mailbox for the fiftieth time in two days. In the end, lines can be cruel. How cruel? Cruel enough so that when my mailbox door opens with a faint click, a little white slip of paper becomes visible and I promply let my dismal second choice class card (which represented an entire morning in line) fall randomly earthward. Lines. They can bring you to the brink of insanity. Academics • 27