Ah, Thanksgiving break is almost upon us. It’s that wonderful time of year where you get to head home for a week and “relax”—except it’s still the middle of the quarter, finals are looming and you have a ton of work to do. As for my Thanksgiving plans, I’ll be flying cross-country to sleep in my own bed and reap the benefits of some home-cooked meals instead of the dining hall’s monotony. (Seriously, if I have to stare down FloMo’s hummus bar one more time, I might lose it.) I also have to start working on a 20-page paper that’s due during Dead Week. Thanks, Stanford!

Where exactly am I heading home to for Thanksgiving, you ask? It’s kind of a touchy subject because when I tell you, you’re invariably going to respond with the exact thing I don’t want to hear. It’s both a blessing and a curse. If you meet me, we can easily make conversation and bond over the topic of my hometown, but I’m probably just going to resent you for it.

I think it’s best to explain this predicament with an anecdote. It was spring quarter of my freshman year and I found myself in my first PoliSci 1 section. As per Stanford tradition, we had to go around the table and awkwardly introduce ourselves. (You know you can only talk to these people under two conditions: (1) in section and (2) drunkenly bonding over your section at some party.) My turn arrived and I said something like, “Hi, I’m Shane. I’m a freshman. I’m not sure what I want to major in yet. And I’m from…Scranton, Pennsylvania.” Boom. Invariably, someone had to say, “No way! Do you know Dwight Schrute?” And after months of the same jokes, I could only snap back, “I don’t associate with fictional characters.” Obviously, I didn’t make too many friends in that section.

So there we are: I’m from Scranton, Pa.—home of “The Office.” It’s been said that Scranton is where you want to be when the world ends because everything happens 20 years later there. I promise that’s not true. Well, it might be kind of true, but think of things this way—it’ll never be as yuppie as downtown Palo Alto. That can only be a good thing.

Let’s get a few misconceptions about Scranton out of the way really quickly: Scranton is most definitely not the worst place you can imagine—I’d argue that distinction now belongs to the Jersey Shore. It was the political center of the United States during the 2008 election. All of the bros out there will appreciate that Dave Matthews Band plays 10 minutes from my house every summer. Plus, Scranton has the most delicious pizza on earth. Unfortunately though, Michael Scott does not exist. Dwight Schrute does not exist. Jim Halpert does not exist (though some would argue that I’m as charming and attractive as he is). I’m pretty sure there’s a paper company somewhere in Scranton, but I doubt it’s as cool as Dunder Mifflin.

And there’s the really ironic thing. Somehow, this TV show has made my hometown—which was chosen precisely because it’s so boring—cool. Honestly, maybe I should stop resenting “The Office” comparisons so much. If this little TV show can make everyone at Stanford somehow love where I come from, then that can only be a good thing, right?

So in a few short days, I’ll be escaping the pre-finals stresses of the Stanford bubble for the relative tundra of Scranton, Pa. (high today: 45 degrees). It might not be anywhere near as exciting as the Bay Area, but it’s still home. Plus, it’s far less pretentious than a lot of Stanford (Theta special dinner, I’m looking at you). We all need to get some space and escape to our own little enclaves, if only for week. I think a lot of people can say that about their hometowns—albeit without a popular NBC sitcom getting in the way.

That’s not to say that I don’t love the Farm. It’s just good to have a break sometimes. After all, as one of my best friends from home, Mr. Joseph Daniel, likes to say: “Scranton is the best place on Earth to come home to, but it’s also the best place to leave.”

Want to chat about “The Office?” Then maybe you shouldn’t e-mail Shane at [email protected].