Over the break, I turned 21. It was Friday, Jan. 6, to be exact. Happy birthday to me.
I have yet to take advantage of my coming-of-age opportunity to buy alcohol, thus disappointing all of those nudging me and smiling knowingly.
My latest birthday has me thinking about landmark birthdays to come. Next year, I’ll be feeling 22, according to Taylor Swift. The following year, no one will like me, according to Blink-182.
Then what? People celebrate their 25th anniversary with silver, so perhaps I’ll be showered with fine jewelry. I’ll pay for this whole semester’s expenses with one trip to the pawnshop.
On my 33rd birthday, I’ll head to my 15-year high school reunion, or opt to skip it if I’m still in my parents’ basement. Then when I’m 40 years old, I’ll be approximately half way to my grave.
How pleasant.
The reality is, birthdays become progressively less special after a certain point. You become old enough to drive, then to play the lottery, then to drink and then you’re pretty much just celebrating reminders that you’re aging.
Eventually, there’s not even enough room for the vast quantity of candles required to portray the years of your existence.
Landmark birthdays come early and often for kids and teens, but there isn’t much to look forward to after that on the birthday front. There’s less enthusiasm after a while.
I suppose it all just comes with getting older.
Enjoy the first week of classes as we all creep towards our next meaningless birthday together.
At least there’s cake.