I did not expect to feel different when I woke up today.
And I didn’t.
I slept through 8:06 a.m.. Which, according to the Greater Baltimore Medical Center, is the time of day I was born on May 11, 1993, only two minutes after my twin sister, earning me the coveted title of “baby of the family.”
I slept through my mom’s text telling me that she had picked up the eggs she forgot to get last night so I could bake myself birthday brownies. I have never really liked cake, which is why every year until I was 18 my grandparents would buy me and my twin sister a Carvel ice cream cake. My mom offered to buy me a Carvel cake this year, but I declined.
Because this day should be different.
Except, it wasn’t.
I didn’t wake up to any epiphanies or a new outlook.
For the first time in seven years I am no longer a teenager. I’ve spent the past few weeks impulsively using the hashtag “#whatsmyageagain” and panicking about turning 20.
Mostly because I have never lived up the teenage ideal presented to me in pop punk songs like All Time Low’s “Break out, Break out” and “Coffee Shop Soundtrack.” (I mean, there aren’t even any good songs about turning 20. There are more songs about being 23. Weird.)
Also, I’ve been panicking because not being a teenager means no longer having the biggest excuse in the world, which is the fact that you’re just a teenager, “still figuring things out.”
But I guess the joke’s on you, 20th birthday. Now I get to be a 20-something still figuring things out.