My Beef With: Turning 21

Sunday, March 9th was a beautiful day in northern Georgia. The sky was that bright blue comparable to that of California, and the air was cool and felt as though summer was kissing your skin. While everyone else journeyed outside to soak up the warmth, I did not have the same desire. I was slowly drinking water and trying to find Advil while nursing my post-21st hangover, and the sun wasn’t really helping my eyes or the throbbing inside my head.

Sure, I was excited to turn 21. Every teenager waits for this night like its 368295683 Christmases rolling into one and poured into a bottle that you plan on drinking in one sitting. And I had an amazing birthday thanks to my amazing family and friends.

But, why the heck was this so hyped up? Yeah, I can grab a beer with a friend or go out and not have to sit awkwardly sober at the bar, but this isn’t all fun.

I’m already too old for this. You know when you were like 13 and could eat 7 Taco Bell quesadillas and feel fine, and then all of a sudden you try that at 20 and it isn’t so great? That’s how it is at 21. You are finally able to drink, but it just takes all your energy and stuffs it into that blender you just used to make a margarita. Two-day hangovers don’t mix well with presentations either. The “dying cat” look does not look better in a dress and heels fyi.

I’m too broke for this. I already lived off of pb&j sandwiches, but this is ridiculous. It’s now between drinking with friends or getting coffee in the morning. These decisions are gut-wrenching. Why is adult life so difficult?

I don’t look old enough for this. Three package stores later and the consensus is I look like I am an eight grader with a fake ID. Granted, someone had to help me get a six-pack off a high shelf, but a lot of older people are short… Right?

It only goes uphill from here. We all have those ages we look forward to. At 15 1/2 you get a learners, 16 is the license, 18 is scratch-offs, and 21 is drinking. What now? 25? Wooo-hooo I get to rent a car. My whole 25th year will be spent renting cars and never driving my own. Then there is the magical age of 30 when I start lying about my age. I will turn 30 for five years in a row.

Basically, I’m over being 21. Man, I need a drink.

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