On being twenty-one

I have now been officially 21 for nearly 24 hours (or over 24 hours, depending on your time zone). I have technically been 21 years old for 1 hour and 49 minutes. I initially felt I should write something here, it being my birthday, but then changed my mind and decided to let the day pass without remark, since another year doesn't really give me anything more to say. Then I decided it's about time for me to make a post anyway, so I might as well make some twenty-first birthday post.

First, I cannot let Will's comment on my last post go unanswered. To do so would break our long-standing rapport regarding Des Moines, Iowa. So, for those of you who don't know, I absolutely loathe Des Moines, Iowa. It's supposed to be a state capital - and the largest city in the state - and it's got a population of a whopping 200,000 (actually, according to the official website of the Government of Des Moines, it's "approaching" that number). It is the answer to the question, "What if they built a city and nobody came?" You can see farmland from the sixth story of a downtown hotel. You can jaywalk with impunity. You can run a mile through the intricate system of skywalks pretending you have a gun and nobody will notice because there's nobody there. Perhaps Will can add his own commentary - I've left plenty of Des Moines suckages unstated.

With that out of the way, I'll move on to the relevant material: being twenty-one. Exciting, right? I can drink now! Well, I spent the last five months in Mexico, and I'm there now, so that's really not a big deal. Nobody cares about you turning 21 when the drinking age is 18. But it does feel like a turning point... kind of like when you turn 16 and you're a real teenager, even though you've been twixt twelve and twenty for four years. Now I'm fully into my twenties, and suddenly thirty is the next big number. That is, ironically, sobering.

I'm sure that those older than me, who I think comprise most of my readership, are quite disgusted with me right now.

My birthday was relatively uneventful. I did have a "surprise" party, during which I resigned myself to having my face shoved into cake. My nostrils still burn a little bit. This afternoon we went to El Salto de San Antón, a waterfall more or less near the school, and then to a nearby restaurant where Rob bought me a convento ("convent"), the restaurant's specialty rum-and-tequila drink. It came in a bowl. When I commented on the lack of strong alcoholic flavor, someone mentioned jungle juice, which led to my hypothesis that jungle juice is God's practical joke against freshmen. Apparently he lost track of my graduation year, though, because upon standing up I realized that beneath the drink's fruity facade lay a potent, balance-impairing substance that I have chosen to call C₂H₅OH.

Later that evening I had a beer with Rob and Ana María (my host mom), watched an episode of Friends, ate la cena, and wasted a bunch of time online. I received some 50 birthday wishes on Facebook, which makes me feel like a complete ass for never, ever, ever recognizing anybody's birthday.

Well, I do have some homework to do, and I'm starting to wonder based on my own tendency to skim if post length is inversely related to number of comments. So I'll leave it at that and go to sleep a 21-year-old.