Happy Burfday To Me

Today, I’m 22! It’s nice having a September birthday: Nine months is just the right amount of time to insert a day of self reflection where I can note the shambles of my New Year’s Resolutions. Goals for my 23rd year? Talk less. Write more. Learn Chinese. Write better. Publish something better than my 22nd year. Clean up my potty mouth. That’s definitely more than enough goals. Guess I should insert something about health and long-term goals. Yawn.

My friends who turned 22 before me boo-hooed the fact all the coming-of-age, important birthdays are over (14 for driver’s permit, 16 for the license, 18 to be an “adult,” 19 to smoke in Alaska, 21 to drink). I try to comfort them: When we’re 24 we’ll be able to rent cars with much greater ease! And 22 is a palindrome! Palindrome birthdays only come every 11 years, there’s a finite amount of them left. Somehow this isn’t received well either.

Frankly I’m relieved to be done with 21, and thrilled that all those liquor signs now say “after this date in 1987.” I’m tired of going to the bar, having my license scrutinized endlessly while someone tries to figure out if Sept. 4th has passed yet. This never failed to make me feel like I was doing something wrong, even though I was of age. I’m such a sissy.