Twenty One and Invincible

Order up the toe tags on my youth and pour Bacardi on my grave. Another meaningless date and another meaningless number has approached and faded. And into the abyss of student loans, disappointing careers, and overweight children I enter.

I never liked birthdays to begin with. Well -- there was a time I did. Ten and younger -- I danced the night away to Dancing Queen and YMCA in a time before I knew or cared about what "cool" meant. I ate till my stomach dropped and drank fruit punch till my tongue resembled the color of my cheeks. I woke up more excited than Christmas morning, running towards friends and relatives, convincing them it was a day worthy enough to smile.

These days, people leave me overly enthusiastic voicemails and lazy facebook messages trying to convince me of the same thing. But they never work. It all seems like a day where the prevailing feeling is the same as accepting a zig-zag pink and blue sweater from an aunt on Christmas. I pathetically answer thank you, wondering why society has forced me into such an awkward engagement.

I admit it, though. Birthdays are only a drag because of my own cynical attitude. But hear my thoughts out. If people remember my birthday, barraging me with happy birthday wishes and extroadinarily nice attitudes, a feeling of "you-are-only-nice-to-me-because-you-have-to" comes over me. I can barely stand superficiality on a day-to-day basis. But to receive it on a "holiday" where superficiality trumps all is downright painful.

Flip the coin.

When they forget my birthday or do not act nice to me on my birthday, I feel dissed. Don't you know it's my birthday? How dare you?

A 12-hour workday. A few meals before, between, and after. Three South Park episodes. Call it an early night. Maybe I will wake up with a psyche unscathed from a 21st birthday most men hope to wake up still trashed.

Now, all I must do is face the aftershocks this post has inevitably help set up. Belated birthday wishes and belated birthday questions. Pretend I enjoyed the summer birthday. Pretend I got drunk and woke up next to a hooker named Alex. Sex: Unknown. Pretend I'm looking forward to my next one.

And when the questions have subsided, I can finally enjoy an alcoholic weekend with no repercussions. I can enjoy a Vegas vacation with no fears of winning and giving it up. I can enjoy a lifetime membership of constantly looking down on those who are not walking into the bar with me.

Till then, may the tail end of a drawn out cocktail party continue.