COLUMN: Becoming a man, turning 21

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Sept. 12, 2011 was the day I had been thinking about for years.

It was a date that taunted me every time I looked at my old license. It determined my fate every time I entered a bar or club.

It was the day I would become an adult.

As a senior, it felt like I should have been able to legally drink a year ago, but having a late birthday kept me behind friends and classmates when it came to that freedom.

While my friends were cruising down the highway with their new licenses at age 16, I was still chauffeuring mom and dad around the neighborhood with my brand new permit.

When everyone turned 19 and enjoyed the nightlife in Windsor, I finally earned the privilege to buy tobacco (which isn’t even important to an asthmatic.)

My 21st birthday seemed like it would never come, especially after the agony of living with eight other students, who were all 21, last school year.

But Sept. 12, 2011 finally came.

Everyone envisions their 21st birthday in a luxurious club, surrounded by an abundance of friends and beautiful strangers with an assortment of top-shelf liquors in front of you.

While a Sunday night at O’Kelly’s Sports Bar & Grill, 2000 S. Mission St., may not have been the extravagant environment I expected. I was happy to have several of my good friends celebrating with me, and my memory of the night isn’t exactly vivid anyway.

Maybe it’s better not to have an expensive, over-the-top, 21st birthday party, seeing as how it is a night that will inevitably be forgotten should you partake in the typical college celebration.

Usually, any drinks bought for the birthday boy or girl end up finding their way to the floor with the rest of his or her stomach contents. I at least made it to the outside of the bar, or so I’m told.

Now that I’ve gotten through my 21-year-old trial and I’m finally able to legally drink, I’m overjoyed.

Many legal drinkers will tell you it’s not as exciting to enjoy an alcoholic beverage after the thrill of breaking the rules is over, but I’ve yet to reach that stage. I’m still in shock and awe that establishments will serve me booze despite the fact that I haven’t gained an ounce of maturity.

Becoming of age doesn’t make you any better at drinking either. I still make a terrible face as if I’m about to vomit no matter what kind of shot I take and usually spend five minutes staring at the wall hoping I can keep it down.

It’s been less than a month since turning 21, though, and I still have time to become a bar-star.

I’m not America’s best 21-year-old yet, or even Mount Pleasant’s, but I’m working on it.