Entering the 23rd year of life has simply been weird. This birthday is different because, unlike my last ones, I don’t feel like I have much to be excited about. Turning 21 was an awesome, celebratory welcome into adulthood. Turning 18 just meant I could vote and therefore serve jury duty (lame); turning 21 meant I could drink. Almost anywhere, whenever I wanted and as I damn well please.
Turning 22 just felt like a second anniversary of turning 21 – I was still very young, and the world was my drunken oyster. But 23 already feels much, much different.
To be fair, a lot has happened – and changed – over the past year. I graduated from college, which translates to  hunting for a grown up job that will hopefully lead into an adult-appropriate career. I’ve seen some of the world and traveled to far away places. I’ve grown farther apart from my family and more confident in my independence. I’ve been paying my own rent and some bills for a few years, but I now have student loans, health insurance and car payments to contend with. All without a solid grown up job, at least for the moment.
So 23 feels like a significant and less-alcohol-filled step into my future. And since I’ve spent most of it at the airport trying to catch a flight home (I fly standby) its given me plenty of opportunity to think. My plans have been rather disrupted, if not rendered impossible, but I don’t really mind. I know that I have plenty of adult birthdays ahead of me – and as I become  more comfortable with growing older, I’m sure I’ll feel like I have more to celebrate.