Sunday, March 25, 2007, was the 21st anniversary of the day I was forcibly pushed out of the… Sunday, March 25, 2007, was the 21st anniversary of the day I was forcibly pushed out of the comfort of my mother’s womb and into this cold, cruel world. Turning 21 is supposed to be a joyous and memorable occasion, but throughout the days leading up to the big celebration, I could only think of one thing: It’s all downhill from here.

Although I am relatively sure that good things are still to come in my life – jobs, families, senility – when it comes to birthdays, 21 is it. Cultural and social norms pack most of our age-related milestones into the first two decades of our lives. After 21, each birthday is just the mark of getting one year older, one year closer to the end. Just thinking about it is more depressing than a melted ice cream cake.

It all starts at age 10. Finally, you’re in double digits. In your mind, you are a young adult. The training wheels are off, and you’re not a baby anymore.

For those of us lucky enough to subscribe to the prestigious social club we like to call Judaism, the next big birthday is at 13, better known as the bar or bat mitzvah. For those of you who don’t know, bar mitzvahs are spiritual coming-of-age ceremonies capped off with parties just as ridiculous as any sweet 16, except for the fact that the guest of honor is three years younger, so everything seems that much cooler. Thirteen was also the birthday that permitted us to go see PG-13 movies, and, for some people, the time to start shaving. Hey – stop judging me.

Next up is 16, when many American teenagers are at some point in the process of becoming legally allowed to drive. Isn’t it funny that 16 is the age that the government feels people are responsible enough to operate gasoline-filled chunks of glass and metal at 50 mph? I was a sophomore in high school when I turned 16. Do you remember how responsible you were as a sophomore in high school? I don’t. And neither does the guardrail I crashed into only two months after getting my license.

Two years later, turning 18 is the big thing. You can vote, and you can go to war. You can vote to stop the war. You can fight to stop voting. The possibilities are endless, as long as it includes voting and/or war.

Then, finally, we get to be 21. Your 19th and 20th birthdays are pretty much pointless and should probably be removed from society. Twenty-one is the age that you can consume alcohol. I’ve heard a lot about it, and I can’t wait to try it out – though only in moderation and never before operating a motor vehicle, St. Louis Cardinals Manager Tony LaRussa.

So, what comes after 21? At the age of 25, you can legally drive a rental car. Sweet. At 35 you can run for president of the United States. Even better. In only 14 years you can all find the Sam Ginsburg-Gary Coleman running team on your ballot, and immediately vote for somebody else. Thank you for protecting our country.

People tell me that getting older is a good thing; that every year brings on new experience and wisdom. They also say that finding the beauty in aging is the true path to the fountain of youth, and that we are all only as old as we let ourselves believe. But, do you know who tells me these things? Old people. And, ever since seeing the Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho,” I’ve never trusted anybody over the age of 30.

Getting old is scary. Right now, we are all in the safe little cocoon of college life. Whether you want to believe it or not, this is not what the real world is like. Right now, getting older means real responsibilities, real problems and real consequences. Father time is forcing us all out of our comfortable wombs, throwing us into the cold, cruel world of reality. That’s not scary; it’s absolutely terrifying.

Turning 21 doesn’t only mark the end of childhood, it’s also marks the beginning of adulthood. With such a daunting concept ahead of us, what else can we do but go out and get lost in the celebration, if not for just one night?

Now, I’d obviously much rather be over 21 than under, but what else do I have to look forward to? Gray hair? Mid-life crises? Adult diapers? All I can really do now is sit around, legally drink and wait to turn 50, when I can apply for an AARP card. I can smell the discounted bus fares and movie tickets now, and they smell great.

E-mail Sam at [email protected], or just stop by and give him a hug.