It was the eve of the year 2005. While most of my less-fortunate fellow high school seniors were huddled together, chugging pee-colored beverages in freezing garages of sin, giggling over who was going to “do work” at midnight with whom, I was relaxing with a tall glass of Welch’s best in my Grandfather’s plush 65+ community. My mom had decided to surprise my 90-year-old grandfather in his home on New Years, so we hopped a flight to Old People, Fl., fully prepared to get crunk.

But, after getting lost in the maze of houses whose uniformity rivaled that of Destiny’s Child’s outfits in the ’90s, we arrived at his wire I-plan-to-die-before-I-fix-this-lock door to find that his 1834 Cadillac was missing from the driveway. Yes, my grandfather was rocking out at a party, chugging apple juice in a steamy screened-in-porch of immorality, giggling over who was going to “do the hanky panky” with the assistance of Mr. Purple Pill.

When he finally arrived home, Granddad sat down at the kitchen table of fruit-inspired décor, and announced his presence with the usual release of air from about every orifice of his body. After thus earning our attention, he began:

“When I met your grandmother, she was a small-town sweetheart, and I was a big-city boy from the docks. It was different back then. Her mother thought I was only in it for the sex. I’ll admit, the sex was on my mind … more than it should’ve been, but I loved that woman.”

The word “sex” launched a wave of movement through the room; my mother’s face contorted in the mix of horror and confusion that accompanies the sudden appreciation of Nicole Richie’s head-to-body size ratio. My brother abruptly announced that he had to pee and sprinted to the bathroom. Emotional tears streamed down Granddad’s cheeks as he explained the ins and outs of his three month post-wedding “dry period,” and my red-faced father excused himself to check on my brother, my stunned mom in tow.

My family had abandoned me for the comforts of the 10-square-foot bathroom. At first, I felt a little like Jack. “No, it’s alright Rose; YOU take this floating piece of driftwood. No, really, the water’s fine. It reminds me of my days as water polo captain back at my private school in Ireland.”

To this day, this remains the only intra-family “sex talk” I’ve received. I’m convinced that if Grandaddy hadn’t graced us with tales of sexual frustration and conquest, my Irish-Catholic ultra-conservative family would still be under the silent consensus that Jesus Himself threw babies down from Heaven to happily married couples of the “boy/girl” kind, like holy little pigskins of joy.

As my mother recently explained to me via AIM, the lesson of his speech was to “not reproduce like little bunny rabbits.” However, as I watched my Grandfather passionately mortify my family with his defiance of every single guideline of propriety, the only message I retained was that I thoroughly enjoyed every uncomfortable minute of it. I excitedly rolled around in the tension-filled air as if it were a large vat of tapioca (don’t lie, you’re curious).

Moral of the story: While I laughed with Granddad about how his five kids were proof of his mad game, my brother found himself locked in a small bathroom with our parents and the forced recognition that everyone knows that Jesus isn’t QBing babies.

So, as an aficionado of all that is awkward, I find myself at home at C.U., where raw talent always outstrips social skills, where once ugly ducklings become swans mainly by the theory of relativity and where everyone’s in the same boat. The auspicious halls of Cornell are overflowing with those whose excessive talent and unusual extracurriculars might not have been appreciated in high school, and we guard our mildly dorky pasts with the same ferocity with which we once guarded the goal for our soccer team, Peanut the Elephant for our Beanie Baby collection, the trophy for our Dance Dance Revolution tournament and whatever else absurd hobby made our college essays Ivy-worthy.

In a desperate attempt to avoid uncomfortable situations that our thespian troupes failed to teach us to handle, we often do a proverbial “spin move” around the initial thorny confrontation, only to find ourselves face-to-face with a proverbial “6’3 chubby Pokemon collector with acne and a thorough understanding of Elvish.” Simply put, by trying to avoid and/or ignore the hilarity of awkward situations (namely, sex-ed with Granddaddy), we force ourselves into increasingly genuinely uncomfortable ones (namely, locked in a small bathroom with my parents, a cross and air made thick by strawberry candles and the newly confronted reality of fornication).

So maybe we can stop sneaking out before dawn, and maybe even stick around for breakfast. That way, you won’t have to partake in the typical reverse-staring contest at Trillium (goal: avoid eye contact longer than your partner). Instead of attempting to DIY your clogged toilet before your roomies find the evidence, take ownership of your fiber-rich diet. That way you can avoid the Oregon Trail river crossing (dodge the logs. Yes. I went there). Instead of coming up with some lie about why you had to return a photocopied version of that borrowed worksheet, admit you peed on the original, along with a backpack’s worth of papers. That way, I will find you fascinating.

So relax, and take on the inevitable social catastrophe armed with a sense of humor and a strong handle on your gag reflex.

Shannan Scarselletta is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at sscarselletta@cornellsun.com. Awkward Turtle will appear alternate Wednesdays this semester.