This column appears in the 2007 edition of The Sun's annual Freshman Issue.

During my childhood, I was lucky enough to watch one of the most beautiful relationships unfold before my eyes. It filled me with such hope that perhaps I, too, could find love in kindergarten with the boy next door: a true love that would last through the trials of puberty and eventually lead to a wonderful marriage. I spent many silent dinners with my parents in awe of the tried-and-true relationship before me. Every day, I thank God and basic cable for introducing me and my generation to the unflinching devotion of history’s most passionate lovers: Corey and Topanga.

For those of you who opted not to bask in the romantic glory that was Corpanga, I am referring to the epic masterpiece Boy Meets World. It was a coming-of-age television series that ran through the ’90s about Corey Matthews and his rowdy gang of family and friends. The object of Corey’s respectful desire — and the not-so-dry dreams of my pubescent classmates — was the curvy, opinionated and quirky Topanga Lawrence. They met at the raw age of six in the local playground, when Corey’s best friend, Shawn, pushed him into Topanga, knocking her down. Their beginning inspired me to push down many a potential lover in many a playground, until 15 years of failed attempts taught me that random outbursts of violence were not always catalysts for lasting relationships.

In fact, I entered college with a boyfriend-to-restraining-order ratio of 3:8, and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in my relationship naiveté. The truth is we all had to do something uncommonly well to get into good old C.U. Whether you spent your Saturdays Balderdashing at Trivia Team practice, summers getting your logarithims on at math camp, nights spoon-feeding Grandma Death at the local nursing home or simply the better portion of your life harvesting the endangered cyanea crispa population with your biological mother Freda and her life-partner Joan, you sacrificed some serious social development time for the benefit of a sweet college essay.

To my fellow athletes: we are no exception. Most of us have spent our summers in traveling leagues, sacrificed dances for practices, parties for games, late nights for early conditioning. In fact, I would wager that for the most part, we’ve swapped more same-sex ass slaps than opposite-sex saliva.

And yet, at the ripe age of 18, we are thrust into a community of individuals who suffered similar social setbacks to earn their spot in the auspicious ranks of the Ivy League. Suddenly the bar is lowered, and the availability of hookups and one-night stands is higher than ever. You have the right amount of mystery (no one knows about that model airplane fetish) and raw sex appeal (courtesy of beer goggles and A Kon) to run game on the flyest hunnies. The devotion of Corpanga is forgotten or at least repressed for a little of that hoochie hoochie Ivy League booty.

Shoot. Anyone knows; give me 24 minutes, some Fergilicious and a sweaty dance floor with enough room for me to bust my moves a la Hammer time. This is the widely accepted recipe for some meaningful, perishable lovin’. That’s right kids, a relationship with an expiration date … could there be anything more compatible with the work hard, party hard, three paper days, keg-stand nights lifestyle?

But what happens when that cute, cool, quirky study partner has a bigger effect on the lump in your throat than the lump in your jeans? You’ve seen her in sweats in the daylight, and her text messages make you laugh, not take your number off Facebook. What do you do when, God forbid, you find yourself sober-dialing? I’ll tell you: sweaty palms and a lack of game.

I came across this dilemma while discussing with a friend his inability to convert a friendship into something more intimate: “She comes over to the house all the time, even during the day, just to hang out. She always ends up in my room, but she never hooks up with any of my housemates, even at parties. Is it possible for a girl to want to ‘watch a movie’ and to see the ending?”

Yes. This surprisingly respectable breed of female is what Grandma Death would’ve called a “keeper.” She likes your company but wants to get to know you before getting to know you biblically. I suggested that he ask her to coffee: establish interest in a room where you can’t lay down and earn some one on one time. He responded, perfectly seriously I might add, “well, I was just going to make a move while I was drunk.”

Can you blame him? As Cornell students, our prime social development occurs in an atmosphere where it’s as easy to tap a chick as it is to tap a keg and requires the same degree of motor skills. Our socially underdeveloped pasts catch up to us in this phase of a potential relationship, and we return to the recipe that’s been proven, Saturday after Saturday: Fergilicious, alcohol, sweaty dance floor, unguarded pelvic thrusting.

I offer one solution: Corpanga. Imagine if Boy Meets World had begun like this: In walks Topanga wearing nada but a twisted miniskirt and some sort of nipple-covering device reminiscent of the Staples “Easy” Buttons. She is spotted by a multiple-polo wearing, multiple-collar-popping Corey, who maneuvers around the garbage bins filled with Beast on ice to have a meaningful conversation with the most divine being he’s ever seen. But, as he approaches, the music suddenly switches to the undeniable beat of “Smack That.” As if their hearts and minds were one, Topanga turns and starts shaking her moneymaker to Corey’s delight, who returns the favor by obeying A Kon’s demands and smackin’ that ’til she gets sore.

Let’s be honest, that show would be canceled before Topanga’s first body shot.

So, if you find them more interesting than a meat cleaver, more tempting than Natty Ice and more intoxicating than melon liqueur, perhaps you should give them a little respect and a little one-on-one time sans alcohol and A Kon. Just relax. If you find yourself tempted to slug a shot or six to speed things up, reference the episode “Girls Next Door Gone Wild: Topanga Lawrence.”

[Giggles] “I’ve never done this before.”

Wait. That never happened.

Shannan Scarselletta is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at sms254@cornell.edu. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Wednesdays.