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During my first few days of freshman year of college, it was sunny, bright, and contradictorily cool. We kept waiting for rain, and there was none, which was good for us suburban kids who weren't used to all that walking around in a city.

Several days were reserved for freshman orientation before classes began, and this orientation included "diversity training" on the grassy college green (where we designed our own skits about racial sensitivity), last-minute dropping and adding of courses, and "campus safety" seminars. There was a tree-lined brick walkway that ran the length of campus, past the Book Store and the main freshman dorm, and along the way, people stalked us trying to invite us to their club, sell us something, offer us membership.

During the first few days of school, everybody wanted us.

If we walked on the brick walkway, we'd get accosted by coupons: The local pizza restaurant, wing joints, bagel shops. Credit card companies set up desks to offer us gifts if we'd use their card, now that we were suddenly independent (probably not such a good idea). Clubs and non-profit volunteer groups begged us to be members.

And there were jobs. "JOBS!" the pink fluorescent flyers screamed, "$12-$15 an hour!" The $15 an hour one involved delivering newspapers on campus from 6 a.m. to 9 a.m. before classes, a great way to earn yourself a reputation on your dorm floor while everyone else slept late. There were jobs editing the faculty newsletter, sitting in the dorm computer rooms, and working in the dining hall (which meant a nice discount on meal plan).

One night during orientation, there was an event at the Christian center with free burgers and a showing of a Monty Python movie. Of course, all the non-Christian freshmen came too, because it was yet another free dinner, a way to avoid spending money when people were throwing so many freebies at us.

Everybody wanted us. We were the future.

And we wanted each other, no doubt. Some of us had boy- or girl-friends back home, but not most of us. We were 18, without our parents for the first time, and our hormones were still raging. So there we were, with thousands of people our ages, of similar backgrounds, suddenly sprung from the stuffy halls of high school and shedding the social labels of nerd or geek or jock. Everyone wanted to sell things to us and get to know us.

It really felt like a beginning.

We could do anything from here, and some of us were bound to be successful at it. Those groups, credit card companies, and employers knew it. We were ripe for the picking. Get 'em while they're young. Feed 'em, stuff their mailboxes with offers and event notices, give 'em a plastic blue and red rape whistle if any of their late-night activities go too far.

It was an explosive, exciting time for those of us who'd been mired in the limitations of high school. It was the beginning of independence.

For some students, it was a time when they realized they didn't know how to handle that newfound independence and flunked out. Others started a romance within a few days and never ended it. Some just went through school and had a good time. Some prepared to make a lot of money. Some filled their heads with knowledge and didn't know what to do after graduation.

But no matter what happened, beginnings are nice. We didn't know which path we were about to take, only that it was all ahead of us and not much was behind.

That feeling comes back to me every year around this time, when everyone looked at us as the representatives of the future, and we knew anything could happen in love and life. You don't have to be 18 to believe that, but when you are 18, it sure helps other people feel that way!