30 IS THE NEW 21

I’ve always enjoyed a birthday party. As a kid, it was a guaranteed hotspot for cheerios – my favourite snack – although I was always disappointed thanks to whoever was in charge of zapping them in the microwave to an acceptable temperature for a six-year-old forgetting to prick them, resulting in a gory, horrific bowl of severed human fingers being served.

As an adult, however, I do feel like there has been an overwhelmingly large amount of importance bestowed upon the revered ‘21st’. Cast your mind back to your third year of university as 21st season struck very much like a pandemic. Every week a new invite for an old high school friend’s big day – often located at a bar in town, a bowling club in the ‘burbs, or the most chaotic... a stayover at the family farm. Preloading was essential as no one ever had any money to their name. Acceptable 21st dresses would be exchanged through the women like family heirlooms while the men would buy the one shirt from Tarrocash and pull it out weekend after weekend. Then there’s the embarrassing speeches, the wall of naked baby photos, the pathetic bar tab that lasts one hour, and the large over-decorated cake that will never be eaten nor remembered as everyone is too drunk by the time it’s brought out. 

My frustration with the celebration is: why twenty-one? When did we decide that was the age one was so well rounded and in their prime that they needed to get family and friends to write a long-winded, half-cooked speech overnight? Besides incurring great student debt, losing virginities, and the odd driver’s licence, what has one actually done of any significance by the age of twenty-one? To put things in perspective, I had just broken up with my first girlfriend the month before my 21st. So, I would argue we barely even know who we are at that age. My solution: can the 21st and wait a couple of years. I celebrated my 30th birthday last year, and in an existential panic, I decided to go big, really big. I hired an RSA, a high school ball photographer (they were very cheap), there was a massive bar tab (huge flex) and of course, drag queens. I look back at the photos and memories of the night with no cringe. There were no high school friends who I barely stay in contact with invited, the speeches were personal, heartfelt, moving, and most importantly, I was not pressured to drink an entire yard glass of cheap beer resulting in me bloating and passing out before midnight. So, bring on 30th season, I say, and leave your Tarrocash shirt at home.