Right now, it is 1:39 p.m. on Wednesday, October 11, 2006. In seven days, nine hours and three minutes, I will be 21 years old. I just wanted to warn the entire student body, as on that day you will not be able to find any alcohol within about a 5-mile radius. That’s right, I’ll be drinking all of it.
Not really. I’m thinking four or five cherry vodka sours will do me in, which is kind of pathetic considering the fact that I used to be able to drink whole bottles of liquor without stumbling. I mean um I’ve never consumed alcohol before. I’m not 21 yet. That would have been illegal and wrong.
That’s what I don’t get about turning 21. It’s supposed to be one of those milestone birthdays, right up there with turning 18 and officially being an adult. This is supposed to be one of those big deals where you go through some intense rite of passage and come out of it a much different, more narrowly defined person.
But nothing’s changing for me this year. Being able to legally purchase alcohol isn’t going to affect me that much because I’m really not a big drinker. I can’t see myself becoming one of those people that hangs out at Lizard’s every single night, drinking beer from around seven until last call. Not that there’s anything wrong with going out and having fun when there’s time. It’s just that I’ve already had my party phase, which was interesting enough, but I got over it by the time my junior year started.
No other aspect of my life really stands to change dramatically when the clock strikes 10:42 p.m. next Wednesday. I don’t want to get married this early in my life, I don’t want to change schools or dive into a career because I’m content where I am. Maybe I’m getting older but I’m still not in a position to do anything with my life.
On the other hand, about ten minutes ago I met a lady that looked me up and down, mentioned 1992 in conversation, and said she didn’t know if I had even been born yet. Another time, some lady was talking to me at my work and didn’t even believe I was old enough to be waiting tables. When things like that happen to me, it reminds me that even though I am 21 now, I am still young, and I do still have a lot of things I want to do and that I need to do before I get out into the “real world.”
One of the things I’ve figured out in my almost 21 years is that I don’t have any definite goals. That might sound bad, but hear me out. I’m majoring in journalism, and one day, it would be amazing to write for some big publication about music. Maybe something like Rolling Stone.
However, if I don’t end up writing for one of those magazines, I won’t care. All I really want out of life, at least at this point, is to be happy. I want to live in a loft apartment with about twenty more pillows than necessary, and I want to be happy.
So next week isn’t going to alter my life irreversibly. I’m not going to change too much, I’m not going to go out and party like a crazy person, and I’m not going to buy all of the city’s Tequila Rose… just most of it. That’s OK. At least, by this point in my life, I’ve gotten to the point that it doesn’t disappoint me anymore.