Students of mystery

"Are you a bachelorette?" said the cashier at Tops.

I blinked twice and stared. I was caught off guard. That was a pretty personal question for a cashier to ask.

"Are you a bachelorette?" he repeated. He began ringing up my groceries. He was being too sincere to be hitting on me.

"Do you live alone? I can tell. You are a bachelorette. This looks exactly like my grocery cart every week."

I made a mental note not to do any further grocery shopping at one o'clock in the morning.

"Except for the hummus," he continued. "I don't like hummus, but I like chick peas. Go figure." He was tall, skinny and rubbery like Gumby, with long blonde hair. He was nice enough, if only a little too friendly, but I still felt uncomfortable.

I mumbled that I was a student and grabbed my bags, ending the conversation as quickly as possible.

I know I'm not alone in my reaction. When it comes down to it, Americans are people of privacy. We like our anonymity, and we don't like random strangers asking us about our personal lives.

Personally, I think it is because we like to appear mysterious.

The current obsession among high school and college students with Web sites such as Facebook and MySpace are prime examples. We like to build ourselves up as more noteworthy than we really are. Perhaps it's an ego thing-it's important for us to have confidence in ourselves, and these websites provide the perfect forum.

They connect us to other students, most of whom we wouldn't have known otherwise, amidst large lecture halls and thousands of students.

We spend an exorbitant amount of time perfecting our profiles, making ourselves sound like perfect specimens. Some even make a point to change their picture daily, in the search for the perfect angle. These profiles are important-they are a reflection of who we are, and are a source of fame.

The addiction isn't with the Internet, but with the desire to feel significant and unique among the billions of people who inhabit the earth.

If you've seen one college student, you've seen them all, as the old saying goes - the same universal uniform of pajamas, sneakers and a book bag.

So Facebook and MySpace profiles perfected, double check. You even include your screen name, just in case your friends forget.

But that is where the aspiration for fame ends. We certainly don't want any strangers poking us, or sending us 30 straight instant messages.

We seek being known, but not to the detriment of our privacy.

Friday evening I went to see author Mitch Albom as a part of UB's lecture series. I had read both of his books, "Tuesdays with Morrie" and "The Five People You Will Meet in Heaven," plus there was a book signing afterwards, so I dished out the $30 to attend.

The lecture went well, and the crowd responded to his sentimental stories and general outlook on life, as he revealed the behind the scenes amusing details of his short novels. Afterwards, I stood in line and spoke with him briefly while he signed my book.

And then, the mystery was gone.

He was no longer an idealized best-selling author all beginning writers aspire to become. He was normal, like everyone else, and with flaws. For one, he was much shorter than I had ever imagined.

We idolize celebrities for a reason, we live vicariously through them to spice up our dull routine lives. All without having to outrun the paparazzi.

Once the mystery is gone, they become less exciting-just another human being, another nobody.

As college students, we choose our majors with dreams of careers that make us somebody, of using the life before us to make an impact on the world. Even if we never become even the next Mitch Albom, we hope to become more than another faceless nobody, to live a life of meaning.

We wish to be immortal, to some respect. We want someone to care when we are gone.

And so, we continue to join in the increasing trends of Facebook and MySpace.

Albom has another solution.

"There's no such thing as a nobody, a person who doesn't affect someone else," he told the audience, telling them to build their relationships and not their portfolios.

A sappy message, yes, but one I allowed myself to internalize.

Maybe the next time a strange cashier tries to make idle conversation, I will not bolt for the door.

Instead, I will direct him to my Facebook page.