Last week I turned 21 years old. I'm usually not very thrilled about getting older, but this year was different.
Turning 21 in America… It's a BIG deal.
The whole drinking age policy itself is ridiculous for us foreigners who have been drinking for… a few years.
In America you can drive when you're 15 and get married when you're 16 (with your parents' consent).
You can own a gun when you're 18. You can vote when you're 18; you can smoke cigarettes when you're 18, but you CANNOT drink until you're 21. You apparently need those three extra years to do some self-searching, mature and mentally prepare for all those legal mojitos.
To celebrate my birthday, I had an authentic American house party. Red solo cups — regular size and shot size — included. I jammed to "Hotline Bling" by Drake, drank from a Malibu coconut rum mini bottle and tried raspberry vodka. WHAT IS THAT? I don't understand the need to make every drink flavored. It doesn't taste good, America.
When you turn 21, it's common that your friends make you a sign with all the things you have to do once you've had a fun number of drinks.
My American mentor made me one, and although I didn't do the majority of the "tasks," they were pretty interesting: Kiss a stranger, get a selfie with a cop, "Tebow" with an athlete, ask a guy for his number, dance the "Macarena" and a few other lovely activities that involved the consumption of even more alcohol.
We continued the celebration in a bar. It had been two months since I could legally drink (and sometimes even get into a bar), so the satisfaction of shoving my legal passport — not my ID, I didn't want them to think it was fake — in the bouncer's face was REAL.
Because I really wanted to enjoy my newly acquired American freedom, I went out the next night. And the next one. It was a fun weekend, but it's over and now I'm just… old.
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