Just when the New Year’s resolution-makers had thrown in the towel and abandoned the gym, a… Just when the New Year’s resolution-makers had thrown in the towel and abandoned the gym, a new set of exercisers has emerged from the bowels of South Oakland to make the waiting period for the treadmill on par with the line to get quarter drafts at the bar on Thursday nights.

Beware the onslaught of “I need to get skinny!” potential spring-breakers.

This staple of college life is looming just around the corner, and along with the gym nearly bursting at full capacity, tanning salons are raking in the dough because one does not go on spring break to get tan — one must go on spring break and already be tan.

Some are digging out their summer clothes from dusty storage bins shoved under beds, agonizing over the swimwear best suited to mask “trouble zones.” Others remain a pathetic, yet friendly, shade of Casper and gear up for another haul down the turnpike or other homebound roadways.

Home: the spring break destination of pathetic losers who failed to budget themselves accordingly, or whose ability to see the “big picture” is menial and are just now realizing that it is indeed that time of the year.

In the early years of college, going home is entirely excusable. Most friends from high school days will be home as well. And by this point, living in Towers is no longer new and exciting — it’s a personal, pie-shaped hell that’s disgusting and irritating. A week with a private room and a sanitary, non-communal bathroom is like a sunny day in Pittsburgh — a rare and welcome treat.

The tide changes when you have reached legal drinking age, have regained your own room and are no longer distraught if you don’t hang with your crew from home until the end of the semester. Going home for spring break as a senior is like paying to see that horrendous-looking flick “The Son of the Mask” — embarrassing and distressing.

After three years of heading to sunny locales for break and still owing my sister at least $350, I decided one final crazy, drunken, bad-ass blowout was just not in the cards, or my checking account, this year. Plan B was to go home, mooch off mom and pops for a few days and get my hair cut by my reliable hairdresser, whom I actually trust with my mane.

Convincing myself that the backup plan won’t be all that bad is getting as hard to accept as the Eagles’ finish to football season, especially as break just keeps getting closer. Disappointing as it may be, I cannot sulk in the impending doom that is spring break in Philaburbia.

In all fairness, three kick-ass spring breaks are more than anyone can ask for. And despite being absolutely crushed in the Fiesta Bowl, going to Arizona in January was a blast. A celebratory post-graduation trip is a realistic possibility, which, scary but true, is coming up more quickly than my out-of-touch-with-reality self is willing to admit.

Bearing that in mind, heading home has its advantages. The parental units are at least remotely excited to have their little scholar back in the crib for about three days. After that, it’s only a matter of time until I hear my mom rant, “I’m sick of your attitude.” But, solace is found with consistency, and I’ve been hearing that line since I was 7.

The food in the kitchen is free, and there is no cause for guilt-stricken panic if you accidentally make a sandwich out of someone else’s bread. I can park in a driveway without fear of being towed or of some less-than-sober ass keying my car.

The clientele of local dive bars are bound to make you feel at least somewhat successful, regardless of a current state of unemployment or lack of direction once a degree is hanging on your wall.

No matter where you find yourself wasting away for spring break — a week sans any remote form of academia is, by far, the best part of the deal. Unless you have Dr. Lucifer as a professor, and have a paper due. If that’s the case, stick it to the man and screw the assignment.

As one of the most recognizable films in cinematic history states, “There’s no place like home.” True statement. But there’s also no place like Jamaica or South Beach, either.

Colleen Bayus hopes the city of Philadelphia’s temperatures hit record highs over spring break so that she too can work on her tan. E-mail her at [email protected].