In speaking with many of my fellow seniors, I came to the logical conclusion that one's 21st birthday should be a jubilant period of unrestrained celebration. After being threatened for 20 years about the potential consequences of underage drinking, 21-year-olds can, in one night, push aside all semblance of responsibility and sobriety.
Well, as for me, despite being weaned on the savory-sweet taste of Manischewitz, (Mad Dog with Chutzpah) for the majority of my Jewish life, I have not quite acquired a taste for grim, stale fraternity-basement beer. In other words, my birthday plans didn't include drinking 21 cans of Golden Anniversary or Natural Light.
On this special day, I definitely wanted to take full advantage of my second coming of adulthood -- the first being when my rabbi verified my "pre-pubescent, squeaky-voiced, 4'10", 95 pound, girls are icky and stinky" manhood after my Bar-Mitzvah.
You see, for 20 years, I had woken up on my birthday with the hope that I would receive some sort of life-changing present that would grow hair on my blindingly white chest, implant muscles in my spaghetti-like arms and remove any unnecessary back hair follicles.
In fact, people would always tell me how young I looked for my age. Fed up with being mistaken for a freshmen every other day, I sought some sort of justice for the young-looking college seniors across the world -- I was on a mission.
I awoke at 10 a.m., quickly showered and began planning out my wardrobe for the day. I squeezed my feet into a beaten up pair of Buster Brown velcro sneakers, put on a Camp Beverly Hills iron-on sweatshirt from my 9th grade sewing class, slinked into a pair of hole-laden, stone-washed jeans, placed a Subway hat from my Junior Winter leave-term job on my spiked and gelled hairdo, and proudly put on my recently ordered Class of 1995 high school letter jacket.
I crammed two pieces of grape Bubblicious and a wad of watermelon Big League chew into my mouth, helping to lock my neon-colored retainer into place. Ensuring that the grimy "I'm fifteen and I don't know how to shave" mustache adorned my acne-covered face, I entered a liquor store.
After showing the cashier that I could blow a bubble in a bubble in a bubble, I asked, "What's the strongest brew you got? I heard that Mad Wolf really kicks in fast"
Without receiving a response, I picked up two bottles of Boone's, a bottle of Mad Dog, a six-pack of Sam Adams, a bottle of wormless Tequila, a bottle of Absolut, and a six-pack of Very Berry wine coolers. After placing the alcohol on the counter and giving the cashier a Power Rangers handshake and an invitation to my Chuck E. Cheese party, I threw my New York State Driver's license onto the counter.
Telling him that I had to rush home to my Boy Scout's meeting, I took out a $50 bill and a piece of scratchy Topliff toilet paper from my back pocket, and handed them to the clerk. Muttering a few expletives under his breath, he finally let me out the door after I showed him my Dartmouth I.D.
When I had finished gargling a few Very Berry wine coolers in a Butterfield bathroom, I went to the Hanover police station with all my alcohol in hand, and voluntarily submitted to a breathalyzer test. On the way home, I entered a Student Assembly. meeting, and walked out after I had guaranteed the forming of a quorum.
When I got home, I spent four hours trying to figure out how to make a long-distance phone call using the new "state-of-the-art" system. Then I spent the next hour trying to determine whose call waiting was clicking -- mine or my friend's. I thought they made the phone system better. I don't know about you, but I can no longer listen in on anybody else's calls.
Anyway, that's just one day in the life of a 21-year-old senior.
