My step-dad has always had an issue with age-related milestones (though he had no problem making a HUGE deal about his 50th).
Sweet Sixteen is just that special age where you’re becoming all cool and angsty and phenomenally sassy (not me), yet Greg saw no reason in having any special sort of celebration.
Eighteen hit and he tells me that yes, it is important because you’re legally an adult, but…it’s not as huge as I made it out to be.
***May I just note that eighteen is REALLY, REALLY WAYCOOL!!!!! You can wear your skirts shorter, wear waaaay too much bronzer and eyeliner, trod around in those super-ugly and quite wacky gladiator-meets-cage heels and just generally be, like, really hott!***
Now I’m facing 20, and though 21 is older and apparently far more momentous because our American counterparts can legally drink at that age (woopee for them!), I see 20 as the scarier of the two.
I’ll no longer be a part of the teen club; forbidden now to have zits, have blowouts (girls get them too); not know certain aspects of the sexual encounter and so on and so forth.
Anyway, what I’m trying to convey here is a sort of floundering between significant ages, where I’m just supposed to roll with the birthdays, but instead I’m fearing them. 20!EWW!
And don’t get me started on anniversaries. Who the hell came up with the present for each year rule? As in, gold, silver, wood, paper blah blah blah. Really, it’s so…………………unnecessarily Hallmark-y.
My parents gave my boyfriend and I alfoil on our first anniversary.
Yours,
Yolande, frankly
