Last month I became a man. No I didn’t have my Bar Mitzvah; No I didn’t get married; No I wasn’t circumcised, knighted, or initiated into the Peace Corps; I turned 21.

Imagine being a senior in college and not being 21 (this guy, last month). On top of that imagine having traveled to Europe last semester, where I could practically purchase a 14-year old Czech prostitute soiled in whisky, legally at the age of 15 yet in my own country not be able to buy a beer at the age of 20? Now that’s some fucked up shit- but not anymore. Now when I say I’m going to the bar – I mean I’m going to the bar, getting in easily, having a drink, and enjoying myself. A month ago when I would say I’m going to the bar – I pretty much meant I was attempting to get in to the bar but was most likely going to get rejected, walk past the line faking a phone call pretending like I was coming right back, then stand outside in the freezing cold by myself while eating a pita and waiting for my friends or if I was lucky a really drunk girl to come outside seeking “assistance.”

Now it’s a total 180. I used to get mad every time I got carded for buying alcohol- now I get mad if I don’t get carded. I want to show my ID to everyone. Ask me anything; address, birthday, eye color, zodiac, cousins name, penis size, fourth grade girlfriend, I don’t care. Either way, my 21-ID has become my golden ticket to paradise.

Recently on my vacation in Mexico, I was asked to show my ID at the bar at my hotel. Show my ID in Mexico??? Pshhh I didn’t even know they checked IDs in Mexico. I knew I was beyond legal so I proudly handed over my ID to the short Mexican muchacha. But as the tiny, little, barely English-speaking waitress went to hand me back my ID, she accidentally dropped it and it fell through the floor in between one of the cracks of the wooden floorboards. Just like that, it was gone. NOOOOOO I yelled as the card dropped in slow motion, watching my whole life, all 21 years of waiting for this ID, pass by my eyes. I felt like I had lost everything. Like some little Mexican women had legitimately ripped off my penis and dropped it down a small wooden floorboard– I NEED that ID.

I desperately dove to my knees (that’s what she said) to search for it. It’s amazing how important I realized that ID was to me in those moments of desperation. “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you got until a short Mexican woman drops it in between two planks of wood.” To think of all the stress of having to get another copy of my ID or use my old “Under-21 in giant red letters” ID and trying to explain to bouncers what had happened, was just too much. I didn’t want to relive that horror of rejection again. After minutes of panic, chaos, Mexican shouting, tequila, guacamole, and a couple of tears – my friend was able to locate it and somehow pull it up. My world was restored.

I remember the first time I ever sipped a beer. I was about twelve, and my father ordered a brew at a Tai restaurant. This was unusual because one; my father never drinks, two; I never call my dad my “father,” and three; because I have irritable bowel syndrome and therefore hate Tai restaurants. I remember looking at the big shiny glass of liquid gold that could transform a strange child into an inebriated gremlin, and I thought “I’ll never drink that. Beer is bad!” At least that’s what all the puppets taught us in elementary school when the school psychologist would go from class to class putting on puppet shows about how drinking was bad and studying was good (those shows would be so much funnier now if I was drunk).

Anyway, I interrogated my father about the beverage until he finally offered me a sip. Me?? A sip?? This was madness. I was a little apprehensive at first, but I eventually took it (kinda crazy my dad was the first person to peer pressure me). Turns out, the puppets were wrong; beer wasn’t the crazy thing they had made it out to be (they must have just had something shoved up their asses….). I thought I’d immediately go on rampages ripping up books, running naked through small villages, burning down playgrounds while howling at the moon (flash-forward now to college). The results were far less exciting. I think I just farted once or twice (nothing out of the ordinary).

All in all, drinking is fun – when done in moderation (and when done legally). For most college kids becoming a 21 year old, ending the largest fear of getting rejected from a bar is equivalent to a middle school kid finishing puberty, ending the largest fear of getting rejected by a girl due to body odor and awkwardness (been there, done that) – it’s a giant sigh of relief and its fucking awesome.

Just remember my fellow brethren; the more you drink the easier it may be to let loose, but the more difficult it is to get hard.

Drink Responsibly.