It came so suddenly. I’ve finally joined the flocks of conflicted Cornellians both relieved and also terrified that the weeks left in our planners have dipped below double digits. But there, in fine print … Oh sweet relief! The Holy Grail of cathartic collegiate experience! Spring Break.

The highly scientific poll of “Where are you going for break?” yields consistent results of Cancun, Ft. Lauderdale — anywhere in the Caribbean or Florida. The classic booze-and-beach recipe that co-eds have been eating up since before MTV. And believe me, I’m not judging — there’s no better time than now. Eat it up. It’s your patriotic duty to gorge yourself on that souvenir. Take one for the team and take that extra shot — stimulate your senses while you stimulate the economy!

Because for many, and me, it’s not economical or obligatory — it’s psychological. What they’re feeding us, and what we’re stomaching, is fear. This is it, your last chance to make that memory, to be as young and stupid as your wallet can afford without your parents knowing about it.

After that weeklong hangover wears off and the tan fades under Ithaca’s eternally gray skies, life presses the big play button. It marches you steadily onwards towards the potential of a life of Post-it paper airplanes in a cubicle a fourth the size of your freshman dorm room. The real world, waiting, salivating, to eat your soul and spit out an empty shell formally known as human … I was a college student once, you’ll tell the grandkiddies. Endless freedom, cushion from consequences. They’ll giggle and you won’t tell their shining faces of the unspeakable horror of the biggest nightmare of all: Not knowing what to do with your life.

In the face of the perfect economic storm for students: no jobs, especially in the go-to, former-Ivy leaguer purgatory of Wall St.; and law, med and other graduate school rejections, it’s easy to forget these are the same fears of youth for generations.

When you know it’s time to go but have no idea where to go to, there’s the classic symbol of the journey of restless youth: the road. It may lead to Cancun or Ft. Lauderdale. But if you’re a literalist, you may find yourself in a tank that gets 12 miles to the gallon with four guy friends, and nine days of road to get somewhere.

You may shoot for Saturday at two a.m. but you’ll really leave at five.

You may wake up in Cleveland but you’ll think it’s Albany.

You may be surprised at how the green river in Chicago on St. Pat’s looks like something out of TMNT, or when you learn that you’re the kind of Irish that fled Chi town to Cali from both the mob and police.

You may find a haunted waitress in Nebraska.

You may watch the sun rise over endless prairies from the back of a brontosaurus.

You’ll probably skip out on Buffalo Bill’s gravesite, but then you’ll definitely miss the view of Denver from the mountains.

You may hang out the window for 45 minutes with your jaw open, careening around curves in a ravine in the Rockies.

In the desert you may be inspired to an impromptu USA chant or silence.

In Vegas you may be the first to buy a two-dollar rap demo and jump start an illustrious career, or you may fool a cop making you come in from the sun roof on the strip by imitating a seat belt and saying, “click.”

In San Diego you may be caught in rough waters between angry mother seals and gaping cliff caves and come away with nothing a Dora the Explorer band-aid won’t fix.

In the Painted Desert you’ll miss sunset by ten minutes and may convince a national park ranger you didn’t see the first, second or third closed gates and may or may not get arrested.

You may find the Greatest of All Road Diners on Rt. 66.

You may drive golf balls into the stars at a rest stop in New Mexico.

You may drive through the night in delusion and fog and pass Goodnight, Texas.

You may listen to CCR on a miles-long bridge over the bayou.

You may stay in an eerie hostel in New Orleans built in 1861, and nearly spend the night in jail over a stolen beer on Bourbon after singing “Run Around Sue” for karaoke.

You may sleep through Mississippi, be asked “You aren’t from around here, are you?” over BBQ and ride on the roof of the car to stare at the stars in Georgia.

You might drive through South Carolina chasing dawn to see the sunrise over the Atlantic as more birds than you have ever seen fly by, north, back home.

Then you’ll wake up in Richmond to go to an Irish street fair and may end up discussing Carl Sagan with a historical re-enactor on the anniversary and on the very spot where Patrick Henry said, “Give me liberty or give me death.”

You may see the National Mall at dusk from the highway and still be moved, you may stop in Philly for the cheese steaks and friends, only to remember belatedly one is a vegetarian.

You will roll into Ithaca and stumble out of the car with books you never read and clothes you never wore, without a tan or fake Gucci sunglasses, with flasks you didn’t need to drink or money you didn’t need to spend to realize it may take a lifetime for you to know what the hell you’ve learned but by god, you’ve gone somewhere.