Hey y’all, they turned the Women’s Table on. Repeat — the Women’s Table is on.

The big granite ovary on Cross Campus is back from hibernation. Spring is officially here!

(Hello, you know it’s so not going to get cold again when they turn that Mama on).

Early Wednesday morning as I turned onto Cross Campus, I saw the sun scintillating ever so gently across the architectural reject that is the Women’s Table (let’s be honest, I’ve seen better fountains at strip malls in Minnesota).

But still, we love her. What an old and familiar friend she is. Her slick black granite greeted me with the same wonder she did when I was an innocent, virginal pre-frosh holding Mommy’s hand on Bulldog Days 2002. A liver transplant and a few sketchy hook-ups later, I still felt that same sense of wonder (I think this is what normal people call a “hangover”).

Watching the cool water cascade down the side of her sleek curves threw me into sheer ecstasy.

The only other moment I felt so relieved, so overcome with joy and rapture, was the night of a friend’s birthday party a month ago. I was cajoled into leaving the shindig to go check out a party at SAE. Little did I know that I would be trapped for 15 minutes inside a tiny elevator with the aforementioned cajolers and a random black lesbian named Bernadette.

The emergency call button was broken and worst of all — the elevator had … fluorescent lighting! Everyone was freaking out — I was the one who remained calm and collected. Sitting on the floor of the elevator, I took out my cell phone to call 911 like I had seen on the show “Rescue 911.”

“Hey y’all, I’m not getting any cell phone service.” I said.

“Neither am I,” bellowed Bernadette.

Well, I thought, this is it, I’m going to die trapped in an elevator. They’re gonna find me dead in a heap under inverse Ellen DeGeneres. At that moment, I made a solemn promise to God. Lord, I promise I won’t laugh at any more Terri Schiavo parodies — please just get me out of here! Just then, as an obnoxiously loud remix of The Weathergirls’ “It’s Raining Men” blazed in the background and there was no hope in sight, my pal somehow shimmied the door to the elevator open and I clambered to freedom screaming “Oh my gah, Oh my gah I almost died!”

But I digress.

Walking past the shimmering glory of the Women’s Table, with spring in full swing, I could not help but notice all the markers of warm weather strewn across Cross Campus.

Pan right and see the “Bohemian” girl with oversized sunglasses, pink tank top and pea green full skirt complete with a white kerchief reading CosmoGirl and eating a small salad from Au Bon Pain.

Standing next to her is the girl behind a makeshift table overflowing with Diet Watermelon Snapple and fun-size packets of Skittles. She will inevitably ask me to stop and fill out a five (by five she means 20) minute psych survey for her second-rate, black-market Durfees wares. (Note to self, avoid that table like the vegan shepherd’s pie.)

Pan left and get blinded by the pasty half-nude boys showing off the latest in Frisbee prowess — or get hit in the head.

Straight ahead, like deer in the headlights of my Yale glory, are hopeful pre-frosh and parents. They look me up and down — “So this must be the average Yale student.” A mother grabs her son, “Honey, you’re going to Harvard.”

And I thought homeless chic was in this season!

Behind the gaggle of Yale hopefuls, a couple embrace and kiss in a rare public display of affection. Hey, someone’s got to kick off the spring mono epidemic.

Now all we need is Third Eye Blind to make it the best spring semester ever!

Will Cornwell would like to give a shout-out to William “Big Billy” Shatner.