Who ARE these people? When I was in college – sadly, a quarter-century ago – I used to wonder about professors.

What kind of creatures were they? Most were amazingly smart, and could tell you more about Roman military history or human anatomy or Catalan poetry than you could want to know.

Yet, I remember spotting one of them, one of the world’s foremost historians of Byzantine Empire, in a grocery store, standing slack-jawed, unkempt, and bewildered in front of the Cheerios, seemingly paralyzed by doubt and confusion.

I thought “that poor guy,” and realized that, had I not known who he was, I’d probably have taken him for a street person. My buddies and I used to laugh ourselves to tears imagining our profs in various everyday situations. Don’t ask.

Now, oddly, I’ve been in the professorate for over fifteen years. I’ve morphed into one of THEM. And while I don’t yet startle at automatic doors or ignore personal hygiene, I have picked up the virus.

So as a kind of primer, I’ll try to give you some insight into the psyche of university professors – a few quick pointers to explain why we are the way we are.

First, most of us are deeply passionate about ideas. Our mental light bulbs were turned on by an encounter with the power of hard thinking about important things, and we have given our lives over to such thinking.

We have discovered that the world turns on words and ideas, whether the Declaration of Independence or the General Theory of Relativity. Because we take words and ideas seriously, we expect that anyone who comes to a university wants to share in the intellectual task.

We are impatient with mental laziness, and get downright incensed by the favorite anthem of the intellectually otiose: “Is this going to be on the test?”

We bleed red ink all over your essays not because we’re nitpickers – well, OK, maybe a little bit – but because few things in life are as important as saying precisely what you mean. We are always on the job.

According to those who study such things, the average college professor puts in, conservatively, a fifty-five hour work week.

The nine hours a week spent in the classroom are only the tip of a massive iceberg.

We don’t have a job; we have a vocation to the intellectual life. We read, write, and think for a living, and that’s a job without a time clock.

That guy staring at the Cheerios was probably in the middle of an insight into church-empire relations in 12th-century Byzantium.

We are, on average, far better educated than most professionals, and far worse paid. And while we gripe about this state of affairs periodically, this has always been the lot of academics. We wouldn’t know how to live otherwise. Lifestyles of the rich and famous will never be ours; our idea of a fantasy vacation might involve uninterrupted time in a great library.

We’re independent and quirky. Although we are employees of the university, we are vaguely offended by this notion. We prefer to imagine ourselves as great comets that streak across the university’s sky, dazzling onlookers with our brightness. Sometimes the onlookers are not dazzled.

And we don’t dress well. Or hadn’t you noticed? I’ve thought of making a killing creating a line of Geranimals for academics: just match the dinosaurs, and the colors will follow.

I wish it weren’t so, but you might as well know it: a few of us are jerks. Welcome to real life, and an important lesson: sometimes one must learn from difficult people. That said, most of us really like being around students, and care about whether you learn. We wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

We’re a little awkward, a trifle nerdy. Smoothness is not a strong suit. Some of us are more comfortable making eye contact with a book than with a person. Trust me, you do not want to party with most of us.

Once I was at a Cajun fais-do-do and watched a stooped, shuffling little old man limp onto the dance floor. But as soon as the music started, he paired up with a partner and became a picture of grace; his feet, and his heart, couldn’t have been lighter. It was magical; I could have watched him all night.

Professors are a little like that: we may be ungainly creatures, awkward, shy, and absent-minded, but pair us up with the music that moves us, and we can dance. As long as you’re here, why don’t you join us?