and then there were three

So today I turned twenty...

Many people have expected me to have experienced some profound change in my very being, or to at least be waxing philosophical about the exciting possibilities that the change in the first digit of my age presents. For the most part I have failed to satisfy these people. I've never found birthdays to be a deeply reflective time. People are apalled when I reveal that I don't know what time I was born or the name of the bloke who plucked me from the depths of my mother. Next week a friend is visiting the very room in the very hospital in which he originated. Apparently this is a yearly tradition, and this fascinates me. What does he do when he gets to the room? Does he engage in some sort of cultic ritual wherein he strips naked and reenacts his own birth? Does he take a picture? Does he look around, say "Hmmm," and walk out somehow enriched and rejuvenated? This year he has asked me to go along and I think that I'll accept as some sort of sociological experiment for my own benefit. I don't know how, but maybe viewing my hospital room is what I need. For whatever reason, I have a difficult time wrapping my mind around the concept of age. I don't feel any older and technically I'm not. I'm one day older today than I was yesterday, which was the day that I turned a day older than the day before. I'm sure I will mistakenly identify myself as 19 years old for a period of time. The distinction is just not that central to my image of myself. Since I'm no longer a teenager, I am supposed to suddenly feel independent or mature or responsible or old or wise or important, but in actuality I've either been those things for a while now or don't plan on ever being them at all. I don't really believe in the pre-packaged, microwavable, TV dinner style stages of life that prescribe a certain behavior and transition for a certain age. I didn't stride proudly into a convenience store and purchase a copy of Horny Hungarian Housewives and a pack of Marlboro Lights on my 18th birthday. I didn't eliminate brain cells in Canada for my last birthday. I certainly didn't put on my responsible adult shoes, sever my teenage ties, and tutor a challenged immigrant child this year. Granted, I may cave in to societal pressures and an intense desire to be a deranged jackass and ride a mechanical bull half-clothed and half-conscious next year, but it's only one exception to my rule. And so I'm left with the main function of my birthdays being that they sometimes provide me with enough cash so that I can coat my gas tank with enough fluid to transport me a few blocks where I can then buy a fucking Sourdough Jack or a bottle of shampoo. This may not be sufficient for some people, but I'm happy with the situation. And if I can come away with a subscription to Maxim, a bag of candy corn, a serpentine cake, and a Maya Angelou card...what more could be necessary?