Super Sweet 21

This is it. In less than a week, I will be taking my proud place in the pantheon of people for whom alcohol consumption is a legal right. That’s right, by midnight on Friday, I too will finally be 21. Since nary a column has gone by all month without some mention of my impending birthday, it’s obvious that I’m excited for the big two-one. And why shouldn’t I be? There’s a whole new world of bars, clubs, events, parties, and even cities (Vegas, anyone?) that are finally going to open up to little old me.

No longer will I have to beg someone else just to buy me the basic provisions for a game of beer pong. No longer will I have to hoard alcohol because I know that replenishing my Red Bull and Vodka stash requires recruiting a willing friend to trek to the store with me. No longer will I have to substitute out the wine in all my best Italian sauce recipes because it’s too much of a pain to not only have to track down the right bottle, but also find someone willing to come with me on my booze-seeking adventures.

No longer will I have to stress about some overzealous police officer deciding that the beer in my hand – or the single beer in my bloodstream – merits me being arrested. No longer will I have to spend my Thursday nights home alone because everyone else has already caught Bill’s Bus downtown. No longer will I be left out of the nightly after-work beers at Dublin’s, the weekly trivia game at Study Hall, and the annual trips to Vegas on Memorial Day weekend.