Every year, McGill’s campus goes quiet as students flock home for the summer. The laws of physics that govern summertime seem to slow down time and campus becomes calm, almost quaint. It persists in this way for almost three months, unperturbed by the bustle of Downtown Montreal. But then—a strangely familiar call sounds. “McGill once, McGill twice….” rumbles from the depths of SSMU, through the Roddick gates, letting Montreal know: Frosh is upon us.

I have a lot of trepidation about this “Frosh.” Why do they need to chant so loudly? I’m skeptical about how many friendships will outlast this first week. They seem to be drinking a lot of alcohol. Where are their parents? Trying to cross campus is like negotiating an obstacle course during the zombie apocalypse, except the zombies are drunk and in search of pizza. What is the point of this anyway—how many of you will remember how to get around campus? Good, then can one of you help me to get around Ferrier? I’m confused.

Before Frosh, McGill was peaceful and quiet. I could read my books while I walked around campus without worrying about bumping into anyone. I had my pick of seats in the library. I could even do a few yoga moves in the SSMU lounge, to the occasional passing security guard’s amusement.

Overnight, this changed. I arrived one day to find that McGill was once again, a living, breathing, and drinking organism. Now, SSMU is occupied by girls in cut-offs, drinking from what look like sippy cups.  Wide-eyed freshmen have overtaken campus, walking behind excited parents wielding cameras, waiting in line at the Fido booth and eating all of the free ice cream.

I can’t imagine what this is doing to McGill’s reputation. Frankly, those shorts are too short for my taste. What, did your sleeves take the day off? I really don’t approve of all of this yelling and carrying on. When I was your age, I worked during the summer. I had a career to think about. You kids don’t know how lucky you have it: when I did Frosh we had to walk up three sets of stairs to get to 737.  Upstairs both ways!

Frosh makes me uncomfortable because it’s a reminder of how old I am. I know that in three years, this generation of freshman will look back with the same mixture of amusement, horror, and nostalgia I’m feeling now. Some will find Frosh to be just as ridiculous as I do; others will continue to love it and will partake in the madness again and again. All I can offer this chanting army of incoming Hype weekers and Four-Floors participants is this: you’ll understand when you’re older.