Being Twenty-One is Horribly Unexciting.

Turning twenty-one, for all the hubbub, was supposed to be a life-affirming, destiny-altering moment. Like graduating high school or receiving a Bar Mitzvah. The twenty-first is supposed to elevate you in some way: to the ranks of the legal. Wow, I finally made it. Picture Tim Robbins as Andy Dufresne, on his knees in the lightning storm, arms outstretched towards the sky. If you don't understand that reference, do your fucking homework.

What exactly was it that I was expecting?

When I was 20, I had it in my head that people went to the bars all the time. Hell, every weekend. I, too, would go to the bars all the time, of course. I'll be twenty-one then. No fancy ID scanner or laser gun is keeping me out. Shit, I have lost time to make up for. My great tragedy in life, having a late birthday, has held me out for long enough. Much like Diana Ross, I'm coming out (to the bars). I want the world to know. Yadda yadda.

When I turned 21, nothing really changed. I was still broke. I had had dozens of people to buy booze for me for months by then, so it really only became slightly more available. When going with someone to the grocery store, instead of handing my associate cash and having them buy alcohol while I took care of the rest of the sundries, I would just buy it myself. And so I did. Here it comes...getting ID'd. That's right. Give me a look. I've got a baby-face. Just shaved, too. I've got to be underage. Just card me. I dare you.
"Can I see your ID?"
Oh, now you've done it. Get ready for the truth, sister.
BAM!!!!
"K."

That wasn't as exciting as it should have been.

Okay, so buying alcohol at the store wasn't really worth all the commotion, but hey...bars. I was able to get booze before but I wasn't able to go to the bars... this is the real money shot, right here.

I am outside of Black Bear in downtown Stamford. I am at the end of a line of about 20 people. It's freezing outside. I'm probably underdressed, both in warmth and aesthetic quality of my outfit. Who cares. Tonight is the night before Thanksgiving, a night in which eeeverryoonne will be out. "Dude, it's like a high school reunion." I finally get in, after the guy who looks like Jerry Springer's security guard lets me in. I am already in a bad mood. Upon entering the bar, I can't hear a goddamned thing. My friends are already there. I go to order a Bud Light... something simple, cheap.

"5 bucks."
Holy shit. Didn't see that coming. The sheer severity of the ripoff causes my knees to buckle. Despite the 500%ish markup in price, there are people pouring out of this place. The man literally twists off the cap and hands me a beer. I hand him a 5. He glares at me. Listen, guy. I've worked a lot harder than that and not gotten tipped. That's my bullshit reason. The real reason is because the beer was fucking five dollars. At the restaurant in Maine, Coveside, where I used to work, beers were 3.50. Or something like that...can't remember. Lame, but not $5 lame. My thoughts are racing. Not only is a six-pack of Bud Light 5.99, but I start to think of other things my 5 dollars could have afforded me.
-A whole high-school special at Garden Catering...well, that is before they upped the price a dollar. Fucking inflation. I shouldn't be eating that crap anyway.
-5 songs on iTunes...DC++ stopped working off campus, I'm getting bored over here.
-Five...five dollar... five dollar footlongs... dammit!

I love beer, but I miss my five. I'm drinking it and it tastes like beer. It tastes like the same beer I was drinking before I got here, that cost me like, 1.25. Furthermore, the reason we came out, to see old high-school folk, is also tanking. No one wants to see the people that are coming into the bar. Hesitant head-nods happen. I hated that guy. Oh well, it's been 4 years. We are all huddled in a corner, my group of friends and I, the same people that would have been hanging out had we not gone to a bar, except we'd be able to hear each other and we wouldn't be so close. Dave is breathing on me. We had been talking to two, maybe three people we used to hang out with, but ran out of things to say. So now they're right next to us but with their backs to us. I didn't notice...they must have found a seamless exit point. Gotta hate turning away too early. We all reach the same conclusion at once...fuck it. We grab some McDonald's and go back to my house. What do we have in the fridge...ah yes.

Bud Light.

It has been 2 months since my 21st and I've gone to the bar thrice. The moral of the story is that my life hasn't changed or gotten more exciting since that supposedly pivotal birthday. In fact, one may argue that my lack of social exploration given my newfangled legality, in fact, makes my life less exciting. But that's why there's nickel nights.

(Epilogue: I do regret stiffing that bartender. I've worked in restaurants and it's a shitty move. I chalk the move up to being in shock. Hey, you're going to get that once in a while when you work in an overpriced bar. Just saying.)