At some point in life, birthdays stop being enjoyable and start showing age.
The first few years follow a pattern: Your parents send out cutesy invitations, buy matching plates, napkins, and party hats, set up some games, put on some tunes, and it's an old-fashioned birthday bash!
As you get older, the entertainment progresses from pin the tail on the donkey, to pool parties, to spin the bottle, and finally to a complete separation from a party because the birthday itself symbolizes growth.
At 16, you're blessed with partial independence, aka the ability to drive. At 17, you no longer have to sneak into rated-R films. At 18, you can - and should - vote. Nineteen follows and is widely considered a pretty awkward year. There are no new privileges, and for most students, it marks sophomore year, which at Boston College sees the most substantial drop in GPA and rise in write-ups.
Turning 20 ends the "Golden Age" of being a teenager. It was a traumatic event I recently experienced April 8. I replaced the one and ushered in a new era of "Terrible Twos," and this time it was going to last a decade. The weeks leading up to and well past the dreary day made me question all that I had done and was currently doing in life.
Were my majors the right ones? Was BC the right place to be? Was I in love? Should I be seeing anyone? Was any of this going to matter in a week, a month, a year, a decade from now?
I wasn't sure, but summer would let me think. Two songs played constantly in my head and iPod: "This Way" by Dilated Peoples and Kanye's "All Falls Down." The following three brutal months of suburban life provided no answers and culminated in my return to Boston, where I would either settle my concerns or forget them.
The 36 hours of this weekend were filled with ups and downs, but mostly blurs that cleared Monday morning.There was something strangely serene about that morning. Maybe it was the nice weather after a weekend of rain and Ernesto.
Maybe it was because I woke at 9 a.m. and all my roommates plus a couple other unrecognizable guests were still passed out.
Maybe it was accepting the difficult concept of growing up and living in a house where we actually pay rent.
All I know is that after emerging from my bedroom on Monday and creaking through the deathly quiet but unusually bright house, I opened the front door and was met with a shining sun and morning dew on the grass that I appreciated. Discarded Solo cups and other "party favors" were strewn across our front lawn, which also made me smile.
I ventured out to gather the trash, and as I reached the end of the driveway I glanced both ways.
Toward campus and our college-aged neighbors, there were barely signs of life. Looking away from campus, I saw an elderly couple, the husband taking out the garbage as the wife landscaped their garden. The husband turned and greeted me. I gave them a polite wave and with my bare feet rushed back to the house as it all clicked.
This strange calm was a revelation: The 20s are a place where responsibility and irresponsibility collide, and not knowing all the answers was all right. I looked back at my questions and realized my responses were of no importance (all were yes). My task now was to open as many doors to my future as possible so that when I get there I have the most opportunity to walk on through.
In the meantime, I better hold on to what's going to be another fast year at BC highlighted by my next birthday. Like I said, at some point in life, birthdays stop being fun, but it's not anytime soon.
Happy 54th Pops!
Wesley Sackrule is a Heights staff columnist. He welcomes comments at sackrulew@bcheights.com.
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