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Comparing your 22nd birthday with your 21st

We all know that aging is everyone’s favorite activity. It’s also common knowledge that one birthday is looked forward to more than any other: the 21st birthday. Too bad I already had that. Here’s how I expect my 22nd birthday this Saturday to compare to last year’s, where my alcohol consumption was understandable and less sad.

21st birthday, Thursday, October 1, 2015
9 a.m.: The 21st birthday festivities begin in London, England. Mimosas are made — and chugged — with friends from the flat next door. Time to walk to class.
22nd birthday, Saturday, October 1, 2016
9 a.m.: Asleep. Hungover.

21st birthday, 11 a.m.: Give a presentation about James Bond. Sneak off to the bathroom. Pour whiskey into my coffee.
22nd birthday, 11 a.m.: Alarm goes off. I’m on the floor. Remember I’m in Los Angeles. Go to make coffee. Forget the grounds. It’s just water.

21st birthday, 1 p.m.: Break between classes. Run across the street to Sainsbury’s, a convenience store. Buy a Coke. Pour more whiskey into it. Chuckle to myself at how much I like whiskey. I like it a lot.
22nd birthday, 1 p.m.: Finish my fourth episode of “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” Realize I should probably celebrate my birth. Heads to the convenience store in the same clothes I was wearing the night before. Buys wine. Spills a third of it. Chugs the rest.

21st birthday, 2:30 p.m.: Falls asleep in class. We were watching a movie. There are worse ways to fall asleep.
22nd birthday. 2:30 p.m.: Vomits violently. Eats a Nutri-Grain bar. Cries. Falls asleep. Again, on the floor. I told you there are worse ways.



21st birthday, 5 p.m.: Casually sips a hard cider. Plays some jazz music. Cook a nice meal of steak and asparagus. Feeling like a million bucks.
22nd birthday, 5 p.m.: Wakes up by the pool. Don’t know how I got there. There’s bird poop on my shirt — which is in the pool. As is my phone. Dignity, however, is nowhere to be found. Feeling like one of those worthless fake million dollar bills.

21st birthday, 7 p.m.: Pregame in my honor at the flat next door. My entrance is applauded and everyone tells me how funny and handsome I am. This happened, I swear. Please? It’s my birthday.
22nd birthday, 7 p.m.: I’ve recovered. Swear my old ways are behind me. I give myself a pep talk in the bathroom: I’m 22 now. That’s 11 times 2. My favorite time. It’ll be a good year. This all makes sense to me, but everyone else thinks I’m still drunk. I’m not. I think.

21st birthday, 9:00 p.m.: Leave to hit the pubs. I can say “pubs” because it was London. I’m so cool and cultured.
22nd birthday, 9 p.m.: Leave to hit the bars. Order a whiskey and a water. Learning from my mistakes. Remember to check Facebook notifications. Ignore them. Try to live in the moment. I’m so deep and philosophical.

21st birthday, 11 p.m.: Spend 5 minutes in the bathroom recording a video to myself talking about how drunk I am. Then realize I never pressed record.
22nd birthday, 11 p.m.: Spend 5 minutes in the bathroom recording a video to myself talking about how drunk I am. Then realize I’m an idiot.

21st birthday, 1 a.m.: Walk home. Argue with a girl who insists it’s not my birthday anymore. That’s a weird cause to take up. I understand how time works. But let me celebrate.
22nd birthday, 1 a.m.: Uber home. Argue with my driver, who insists it’s not my birthday anymore. What’s wrong with the world? Don’t answer that.

21st birthday. 1:30 a.m.: Take care of the too-drunk person who’s not me. Sweet deal. Go to sleep. It was a good day.
22nd birthday. 1:30 a.m.: Stare at the moon from the balcony. Feel old. I’m not. Contemplate existence. Realize I should celebrate my birth every day — without the alcohol-induced floor sleep, though. I’ll just journal, instead. But it can wait until tomorrow. I’m going to have some pudding.

Ian McCourt is a senior television/radio/film major who just wants to be 25 already so he can rent a car. You can follow him on twitter @OrderInMcCourt or reach him at iwmccour@syr.edu.





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