The Long Overdue Birthday Ramble

So yes, the rumors are true, I have indeed turned 18. What does it feel like? is the awkward question I have been asked surprisingly few times. And, thus far, it feels basically like 17 felt. Sorry.

And yet, there's a weight that comes with turning 18. Of course, there's all the "baggage"-- the voting eligibility, the 'adult' status, the possibility of being drafted if there was one, the ability to buy cigarettes (not something I would ever do, but it's really fun to mention just to scare people :P). And of course, there's a sense of a section of life passing away. The only comparison I can make is to finishing the first book in a trilogy (or a quartet, or series, whatever you like): There's a big chunk of life to look back on, a volume filled with begginings and foreshadowings but no conclusions. And looking ahead, there are several more volumes, and while you have some educated guesses as to what they might hold, you ultimately don't know that much for sure. Even people unlike me, who have not only college majors but careers-- whole story arcs, one might say--planned out, really know very little of what life will or even might hold. And, surprisingly, that's ok.

I remember, when I was much younger, thinking that 18-year-olds were so mature. I mean, there were adults, and of course they're mature, but people who were 18 were almost like me, in that the older crowd referred to them as kids, but they were big and tall and could drive and stuff. They were like gods (small 'g'). Even in, say, early high school, I still thought similarly. I suspect now that that's because I knew very few 18-years-olds at that point. As to the maturity thing, well, people refer to ME as one of the most mature people they know (*waits for the laughter to die down*), which is a very scary thought, mainly because I, um, know me. Ah well.

In our 'Answers' folder I recalled coming across an envelope adressed 'To Ethan, to Be Opened on Your Eighteenth Birthday.' My parents had forgotten about it until I got it out. What was inside dissapointed my expectations (was an inheritence to be gained by defeating my long lost twin brother in armed combat, then slaying his hideous two-headed creature from the pits of Hell so much to ask?), but it was interesting nevertheless. It was a letter I had written to my 18-year-old self on my ninth birthday. Even after seeing it, I have only a very vague memory of doing so, but I'm sure it was at the behest ofmy mom.

My heroes at the time were Brett Favre and Reggie White, whic was unsurprising. I lied reading about old "Amiricin" wars. And so on. And so forth. In my vague, dredged-up memories, I think I was annoyed and resistant to writing that letter, and the other day I had to keep from making remarks about corniness and so forth. But upon further reflection, it seems kind of neat, and I may relucantly feel a tad grateful to my mom for making me do that. Is that maturity? Or maybe I'm just going soft.

Oh yeah. According to that letter, my favorite subject in school was math.

Go figure.