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Thing Corrin likes #5: Being 21 years old in 27 days

It’s not about the drinking anymore. 

Yes, I’ve had my desperate moments. I can’t deny my estrogen fueled desires to sip on a cold glass of Pino Grigio, watch an episode of Sex & the City and have a personal pity party. Or value the safety of bumming my own flask of rum or tequila to an open house instead of settling for the Gordon’s Vodka and Fruit Punch Gatorade combo (which has a 100% beverage back guarantee when consumed by yours truly… if you know what I’m sayin’).  Finding an “of-age” buyer willing to sacrifice their time and criminal record is not as easy as you might think.

It’s about anxiety-free nights. It’s about options. It’s about inclusion. It’s about dignity. It’s about freedom. It’s about life, liberty and the pursuit of awesomeness.

The Graveyard Weekend 7/24

Fortunately for me, I am one of the lucky ones. My birthday falls right on the dividing line between my high school’s classes of 2005 and 2006. My family moved when I was in 3rd grade, and it was my mother’s decision to make me either one of the youngest or oldest members of my class at my new school. Drawing upon her experience as one of the younger kids, my mother chose to give me that “extra year of childhood”. I resented this decision because back in 3rd grade the only thing that being older meant was that you were probably held back because you were “stoooooopid” (as I stick my tongue out and give myself wagging moose ears with my little 3rd grade hands). Little did I know back then, but being older really meant two things: 1) Being one of the first kids to get their drivers license and 2) Being one of the first kids to turn 21.

When I finally realized the implications of these advantages, I began structuring my life around them. Instead of taking the after school driving classes with my friends in the spring of 2004, I completed my 48 training hours between the summer and fall of 2003. At the strike of my 16.5th birthday, I was driving my dad’s ‘92 Acura to school and parking alongside the upperclassmen without a parking sticker.   

Following that progressive step in my life, which didn’t even occur on my actual birth day, every 27th of August was a step closer to the summer of 2008.  Growing anticipation and resigned bitterness marked the awkward week my birthday always fell on. In high school, the last week of August was a time when kids were either spending a last weekend at their summer getaway or preseason training for sports. College has been even worse, with a combination of friends being out-of-state and people leaving their summer sublets in Boston for a final week at home before fall classes start. The last large celebration on my real birth date was a surprise 16th birthday dinner at Fire & Ice, organized by some of my dearest friends, many of whom were at soccer preseason with me that morning.

When applying to colleges, I always knew I wanted to go to a city school. My parents wanted to do a thorough shake down of any possible options, some of which included suburban to completely rural campuses (a.k.a. University of Richmond and Lafayette College, respectively). Whenever I would toy with the idea of the traditional college setting, I quickly caught myself, remembering the two complete years of 21 year-oldness I would have in college. “If you’re going to have that ability for 2 whole years,” I would remind myself “there is no doubt you will get cabin fever and go insane.” I had to go to a city school… for my health.

Self Pity

At a point during your mid-sophomore year at BU, the bright-eyed, bushy tailed, house party hopping person you were freshman year begins to wane. The mass text pursuits, crowded basements and limited supplies of liquor become more daunting than exciting. You yearn for a straight line, air conditioning and a variety of available drinks. You yearn for a bar. This is when most students begin investing in a fake ID or inherit one from a sibling or look-a-like friend or acquaintance. This avenue into bars seems reasonable for the 19 and newly 20-year olds, but since my 21st was so soon, it didn’t seem economical for me. Fake IDs are expensive… they can get taken away at anytime… and there’s no preventing a lost fake during one of those fateful late nights. I followed a few “look-alike” leads, but nothing came of them. The only times I could show my face at a bar or club was if I either borrowed an ID or knew someone, who knew someone at the door. And it never really bothered me. “I’ll have more than enough time to go to bars,” I’d keep telling myself.

But once my junior friends started turning 21, and more and more sophomores started getting fake IDs, the mass texts didn’t seem to help. I was abandoned.

“COME TO J.TREE!” one text would respond…

“Grabbin’ drinks at the Otherside… join us!” another would come in.

This summer in NYC hasn’t been any easier. “Oh New York is SO easy… PLUS you’re a girl, you have no worries,” people would assure me. B-S. Granted I was given a blatantly fake ID by a good friend, it only works at the bars where I am definitely one of the older people there. But, I’m a girl? Cute, yes. But well endowed? No. Throughout this muggy intern summer in New York, I have been no stranger to getting turned away and experiencing the occasional confiscation and subsequent beg and plead to the bouncer to return my ID to me. Easy, New York City is not.

Backwards fake ID

 

But on August 27th, 2008 – all will be right in the world. Reaching this rite of passage only 11 days before the semester starts, I will have 2 full years of legal alcohol possession and nightlife without boundaries as an undergraduate in Boston.

Stress-less nights. Options. Inclusion. Dignity. Freedom. Life, liberty and awesomeness.***

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***(meaning “drunkenness”, derived from the phrase “to get awesome” meaning “to get drunk”. This term was recently introduced into my life and gaining popularity thanks to the verbal antics of Regina Carlo @ http://mcgynstein.wordpress.com/ and Renee Pyles).

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