As children, we were always told not to be in a hurry to grow up. “Enjoy being young while it lasts,” they would say.
But now I’ve reached a sort-of youthful limbo where there’s no benefit to being one year younger. I’m denying their advice (after all, “they” are a bunch of know-it-all adults giving out unsolicited advice) and am in an anxious fury to advance one more year.
Why the rush?
I’m 20 years old.
Gone are the joys brought on by each passing year, regardless of whether I’d reached a milestone age. Gone are the birthday cakes and the throngs of people bringing me presents. Now, I’m lucky if I get a check from Grandma and a barrage of faceless “happy birthdays” on (of course) Facebook.
What’s important now is being able to do something I couldn’t previously. If I haven’t gained a new right, then what’s the point?
It’s because of this sense of practicality that the last two birthdays have been the most meaningless of my life. Turning 19 was devoid of any significance and doesn’t deserve further mention. Turning 20 was rough. Turning 20 meant I was no longer a teenager.
“You need to get your shit together and grow up,” I thought as October 24 approached. “You’re not going to be a kid anymore, so stop acting like one.”
Those few weeks beforehand were a little depressing; I was going through a serious quarter-life crisis. Then I turned 20 and realized nothing changed. I could keep doing the same hoodrat stuff, but instead of being a dumb-ass teenager, I’d be a dumb-ass 20-year-old.
With 20 out of the way, I was that much closer to turning 21. I expected it to go by quicker than I could say, “blueberry pancakes.” In actuality, it’s gone by like trying to memorize the dictionary. It’s been an agonizing year, and with just four months to go, it’s only getting worse.
The obvious benefit of turning 21 is I will be able to drink legally. Sure, I’ll also be able to gamble and buy a handgun. But I’m not really in a rush to learn the hard way the house always wins or wield a weapon with which I could potentially shoot my foot off. I’d rather have a pocket full of cash to spend at the bar later and a healthy foot to get me there.
Being able to drink legally won’t mean I’ll enjoy my first beer. Rather, it’ll mean I can stop looking over my shoulder each time I try to enjoy one.
We’ve been brought up in this fucked-up culture where underage drinking is both entirely illegal and widely encouraged. If you don’t think that’s true, then watch a teenage movie or a Keystone Light commercial.
We all know toward whom those commercials are directed, and it’s not the 30-year-old with a career and a family. It’s directed toward the high school and college students who want a lot of beer for a little money. In other words, it’s directed toward people young enough to think Keith Stone is hilarious.
Not only is this shit marketed toward us, it’s also easier to access than a cookie jar at ground level. Everyone has a 21-year-old friend, brother or coworker to pick them up a 30 rack. And if we want to cut out the middle man, we can get a fake ID (the only reason I haven’t bought one is because I look like a boyish 16-year-old, not a man).
So I say sorry to the old people envious of my youth. I am in a rush to grow up. I’m in a rush to end the hypocrisy and most importantly, I’m in a rush to have a meaningful birthday once again.
