Friday, May 04, 2007

22

In the interest of full-disclosure, I already wrote a post today. It was called "Exciting News", and I proceeded to explain that yesterday was my birthday. I really meant to write something amusing, but when I finished and looked over it, I realized that I came across like some self-important 22-year-old who thought his world was ending because 22-year-olds are no longer children by any definition, and are therefore very old. And adulthood sucks. And I haven't really accomplished anything. And in another country, I'd be a full-fledged warlord with like 12 kids by now. Basically, I was crying like a child about how my childhood is over and I have nothing to show for it.

And it's funny, because if I've realized anything, it's that the whole black-and-white childhood/adulthood distinction is false. Every birthday, someone thinks it's funny to half-facetiously ask you if you feel any older. And you never do. I mean, obviously people grow up, and grow old, but old people are usually just as goofy, stubborn, and ridiculous as kids (albeit more wrinkly and hairy). I wake up on May 3rd every year, and for just a few seconds I wonder whether the odometer rolling over has caused some metamorphosis in my life. Maybe I've finally crossed that magical threshold into full-fledged adulthood. Then, I turn on my TV, and sure enough, cartoons are still hilarious. I go to class and still have to stifle giggles when I hear someone broke their coccyx or has angina. Then I cry and kick things when my overambitious celebratory three-scoop ice cream cone goes splat.

Even the supposedly awesome birthday milestones that I'm leaving behind are overrated. Teenagers can't wait till they turn 18. After all, at 18 you can buy cigarettes, play the lottery, enlist in the army, vote, go to strip clubs, and be tried as an adult for any number of offenses. And it's the age of consent, which means that you can expect that 60-year-old from across the way - who was gumming at the bit over you - to come a-knockin'. In other words, turning 18 mostly sucks for those of us who don't have a hyphenated first name. Turn 21, and you hit the nominally important, but practically worthless drinking age. People still get excited, though, because though they've been drinking for years, they just now earned the right to get drunk in bars, clubs, and sports arenas for much more than it costs to drink at a house party. Hooray! You haven't really been drunk till you've been drunk with 38-year-old thrice-divorcees, anyway.

Still, I guess I'll miss having birthdays to look forward to. There might not be many entitlements left that accompany birthdays, and it's tempting to stop counting. I know at a certain age, colonoscopies become a pain in the ass (wow), and Old Guy Discounts at Denny's will be pretty sweet, but those just don't hold the same kind of excitement that turning 18 did, for some reason. So I've decided that I'm going to mine each forthcoming birthday for some awesome (read: lame) numerical meaning, and deprive myself of something arbitrary until I reach it. For instance, 22 is my second-ever palindromic double-digit birthday. I can now eat Jello. I can't wait until my Michael Jordan-themed 23rd birthday, at which point I'll be allowed to watch reruns of Happy Days. And then there's the 24th, which is my second "first digit is half of the second digit" birthday, which means I get to go to Minnesota! Life is good.

Now, in light of my palindromic birthday, I would like to leave you with a palindrome (it's very deep):

No! Come on, ol’ lad. Lose? We’re Yanks! (A revenge biodome in rot). Dog sits if fist is God! Torn? I, Emo? Do I beg? Never! Ask? Nay! (Ere we sold all). O no! Emo con!


Thank you.