I’ve been 21 years old for about six months now, and I can safely say that it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be.

I hope this is running on someone’s 21st birthday so I can ruin all the awesomeness for him or her. Happy birthday; it’s all downhill from here.

First, being of legal drinking age is hard on the wallet. This is, of course, assuming you’re not a hot girl who can walk into any sort of establishment and immediately have creepy middle-aged guys falling all over themselves to buy you drinks.

Not to mention that if you’re a 10, you’ll have no trouble getting the attention of the bartender. Anything below that standard and you’re sure to wait 20 sad minutes, occasionally half-raising a depressed hand to try and catch the guy’s eye.

Granting the premise that you, gentle reader, are hideously grotesque like the rest of us, as a 21-year-old you have to pay for a cab to the bar, pay for whatever overpriced crappy shots you’re able to afford, tip the bartender who scowls at you the entire time like you just killed his childhood pet and then pay for a cab home at the end of the night. This can end up being about $60.

Or if you’re like me and are spending the semester in Los Angeles, it typically costs the same as an average healthy kidney can sell for on the black market.

By comparison, you can pay $3 to get into some basement party on Ackerman Avenue and pour 14,000 Keystone Lights down your throat before the clock strikes midnight.

But I’m confident no one actually does that, because 14,000 beers would literally kill you, and also drinking is like, so totally illegal under the age of 21, and I know we’re all good law-abiding citizens in Syracuse, N.Y.

(Quick tangent: Breaking up college house parties to combat robberies and gang violence in our area seems about as logical as writing more parking tickets to crack down on carjackers. But what do I know?)

Now back to regularly scheduled programming.

Anyway, if you are one of those evil underage drinkers that police love to summon to court, I can tell you that once you do turn 21, the rush of drinking wears off pretty quickly. It’s exhilarating the first time a bouncer is staring down your now-acceptable driver’s license, but once he lets you through with a totally unnecessary death stare it’s pretty anti-climactic. No less crowded, sweaty and loud than your garden-variety house party. Just way more expensive, with way more dudes wearing ironic throwback Mitchell & Ness caps.

So, underage masses, I know you’re looking forward to that glorious day when you can finally legally pay for alcohol (and taste it for the first time!), but seriously — try to lower your expectations a bit. It’s tragically overrated.

And then comes the greatest catastrophe of all: You turn 22. You know what comes after that? Nothing, except eventually you turn 30, thus beginning the long, slow, depressing march to old age.

Happy birthday!

Kevin Slack is a senior television, radio and film major. His column appears weekly. He can be reached at [email protected].

 

Published on October 9, 2012 at 10:10 am