Recently I’ve realized I’m deep in the folds of a midlife crisis. I’ve avoided the traditional aspects of growing old — the day I find my first gray hair is the day I spend my entire life’s savings on a swaggy convertible twice my age and a backseat crammed full of Just For Men. No, my college midlife crisis is in full swing, and I’ve got no one to blame but you, the lovely entrants to this fine university.

Don’t take it too hard — it was bound to happen eventually. I’m 21 now, and not as young and spritely as I was a few years ago. I no longer frequent house parties after I caught myself describing the “good old days” — the early ‘90s — back when Nickelodeon slimed semi-celebrities and pogs were traded like cold sores at a frat party.

Girls too are far less impressed with the knowledge that, back in my day, I had to walk two miles to campus through harsh sleet-filled San Diego winters just to make it to campus. And I’m not even going to bring up the time I revealed NPR as one of my favorite radio presets.

In my defense, nothing gets a Saturday night going like “This American Life.”

So, if you would, allow this old man a chance to stroke his flowing, nonexistent beard and dispense his sage wisdom. First things first: Don’t do drugs. Let’s be honest, the first few seasons of “Jersey Shore” are far less expensive, and generally have the same disorienting and hallucinatory effect.

Secondly, try and refrain from bringing your iPad to class. Everyone — myself, at the very least — will be jealous of your $700 game of Angry Birds. I’ll grant exceptions to anyone who uses theirs to challenge me in a game of Scrabble. I’ve used “muzhicks” before, and I’m not afraid to pull it out of my verbal holster again.

Thirdly, and this comes from years of all-nighters for term papers and studying for finals: There is no love in the Love Library. It is a place of utmost frustration and sleeping students, where dreams of passing chemistry classes and graduating early go to die. Try the turtle pond instead — it may not have an electrical outlet, but try being angry around the small, gushing waterfall and swirling koi fish. Seriously, try it. It’s impossible.

Finally, I’ll leave you with this: Ladies, date an editor of The Daily Aztec. What we lack in staggering athletic prowess (and cold sores), we make up for with dashing looks, fiery wit and dapper Scrabble scores. Just don’t touch the radio presets.

– Chris Pocock is a journalism senior. Email him at chrrpocock@gmail.com. Ladies.