You Might Notice Some Changes: A Potential Extension of Mental Puberty

Aren't you going to sing Happy Birthday to me? Professor Hess in THE AMERICAN ASTRONAUT

Things are getting haphazard and unorganized as I barrel my way into the evening, and I am overcome by a certain urgency. My nerves are quivering relentlessly, sending mixed-up signals to my extremities. What to do?

At 10:38pm, I officially turn twenty-three, and by some account, I am now well into a plight that will most likely end as a failed experiment for me: adulthood. Whether or not I put much stock in the concept to begin with is debatable and would probably yield a colorful array of responses if you were to ask my friends and confidants what they thought of my behavior. Their opinions, however, are worthless in this regard, as are mine. Interpretations and perceptions are, by natural law, respective to the individual, and the objective reality of any given situation tends to lay low until its revelation stands to do Maximum Damage.

Things have worked this way since the dawn of consciousness, and there is no reason to believe the Fates are going to change their tune any time soon. So naturally, it feels as if I am on the brink of either something or nothing at all. The anticipation manifests itself similarly in both instances, marked by tensity in one's joints and a frightening inability to perform certain basic functions that have been huddled in the outer limits of instinct since one's first steps. It is a temporary regression into childhood brought about by uncertainty. And why not?

Twenty-three is nebulous enough without combing through memories of the past two decades only to regurgitate all the silliness that eventually created whomever I am at this moment. Realizing the absurdity of my life and life in general, however, is easy enough to handle, and there is little indication that tonight will see me reeling from some sort of ill-wrought Crisis of Aging.

I am still young, after all. I have time.

If these words are mild rationalizations today, their foolishness will be tenfold when I likely utter them in ten years' time after having squandered every opportunity in favor of a sedentary lifestyle free of pesky burdens like accountability.

Perhaps I am simply coming down with a case of cabin fever as these dark clouds move into position over the western suburbs, dragging their swollen bellies from whence they will release a veritable hellstorm of nightmares. It is a shame that the Full Moon will remain shielded by these bastards. No howling for me. The werewolf will sleep yet another month...

...unless, of course, I am plied with whiskey tonight by people who have never seen me on the drunk nor been on the receiving end of one of my liquor-fueled tantrums.

But I will keep casualties to a minimum, if I can. I will maintain some of that self-control my parents talked about back when I was prone to creating handyman projects for my dad. I'd hate the see the bill for all the plaster, Spackle, and paint he used in erasing the evidence of my temper.

And as I think about the scars of my youth disappearing, almost gone now, it is easy to feel that I am growing old already. This feeling is countered by looking at the scars I've acquired more recently--those that have not yet glazed over into a solid white--and realizing that I am, more probably, still just growing up.

Oh, I have hair on my chest as well as in all the places where my old health textbook told me to expect it. My voice has deepened. My hands have become rough. According to most textbooks, I have achieved manhood.

Still, something seems to be missing, and I refuse to believe that it has anything to do with slaying dragons.