I guess I should have figured it out during the ice cream bash freshperson week, when I began to notice that all in the room were the editor-in-chief of their high school's newspaper, the principal managing editor of the yearbook, the president of their class, the first counsel to their Model U.N., and the chief executive officer of their Stock Market Club.

For those who have irrevocably repressed their Freshperson Week experience, please be aware that these sorts of deeply personal descriptive characteristics were incorporated as easily into conversation as remarks about climate, dorms, and particularly SAT scores, which increased exponentially as the week progressed.

In any event, it did not take me very much time to recognize that Harvard students were quite fond of extracurricular activities and almost equally as fond of corresponding titles that go with them. Thus, as Ec 10 would have taught me if I had ever decided to take it, this great demand must result in a very high cost. The marketplace would accomodate this demand by raising prices, for example, but Harvard has a far more exacting scheme: to wit, the comp.

STUDENTS from other universities of no small renown can simply volunteer to write for the paper, to take pictures for the yearbook, to give tours of the campus. But here, everything is a comp. What does "comp" mean, one may quite reasonably ask. "Competition?" No, heaven forbid, not "competition," the comp directors at The Crimson assured us. Not competition but merely "competence." You have to demonstrate that you're friendly enough to give a tour, for instance, or persistent enough to be a journalist.

And how are these qualities assesed? Well, it varies. To make Crimson Key, for instance, you must give tours to two staff members and be interviewed by several others. To make the Lampoon, you must contribute six pieces containing some humorous content (a requirement which, recent issues suggest, is waived immediately following election to the staff).

Of course, the flip side to all this is that if and when you do make it through the comp, the powers that be bestow upon you a title worthy of your achievement, a title that testifies to your position as the near equal of the entrenched establishment. The results are frequently rather interesting. For instance, "Official Poster Designer, Hasty Pudding Theatricals 161" has a rather Olympic ring to it, I think, while "Sackbut" tends a bit more to the je ne sais quoi.

These illustrious titles can also be a bit problematic; I remember earlier this year trying to explain to an interviewer not familiar with the Harvard system what was meant by "Editor, Harvard Crimson."

"So, I see you write for the paper," he began.

"Yup."

"It says here `Editor.' Do you mean `Editor-in-Chief?'"

"Nope."

"What does it mean by `Editor,' then?"

"Well," I replied, "like, I had to comp, and..." (Note the significant error in judgement here: never mention the word comp unless you really feel like explaining it.)

"I see. Now, the people who write headlines," he demanded, "are they editors? And the ones who sell ads: are they editors?"

"Well, um, they are if they comped," I replied hopefully.

"So it's sort of like a bank where everyone's vice president," he concluded.

You get the idea.

The system can work against you in other ways, too. For instance, "Currier House Grille Manager" may not sound like the most prestigious position in the world, but even to be considered for it, you are required to submit position papers. Isn't that wonderful: position papers for Grille Manager. What are you going to say: if elected, I promise a kinder, gentler hamburger?

I don't think it would be unreasonable to attribute at least part of the blame for these inflationary nominative tendencies to members of the administration. It was they, after all, who sent each of us not just an acceptance letter, but our very own Certificate of Admission, remember? Indeed, it is the rare student among us who has not proudly framed this revered document, and just as proudly displayed it, Magna-Carta style, in the most conspicuous location possible. Certainly, it is the sort of thing that would surely have proved impressive on a date, if indeed such a concept existed at Harvard.

And speaking of dating, hmmm. Perhaps, the comping process and the self-aggrandizement it encourages isn't so far removed from real life after all.