This summer, I had the exciting experience of interviewing Eve 6’s lead singer, Max Collins…. This summer, I had the exciting experience of interviewing Eve 6’s lead singer, Max Collins. He said something in that interview that has been haunting me over the last few weeks: “I think when you hit 22, 23, 24 it’s definitely one of those transitional periods where you’re not a teen-ager and you’re trying as hard as hell not to become an adult, you know? In another way, you are being forced into responsibility.”

Up until tomorrow, I don’t fall into the category Collins was speaking of. Tomorrow is my 22nd birthday; I will be falling into that category and I am starting to freak.

This time last year, I was elated at the fact that my birthday had finally rolled around. After having my fake ID taken away in April, I pretty much sat at home, in lovely Canonsburg – it’s on the map, look an inch or two below Pittsburgh – because all my friends were out enjoying the bar scene. I couldn’t even drag someone to the movies with me, nor could I attend a Pirates game because I was the lone under-ager, the one that wouldn’t be able to hit up Tequila Willy’s after the game.Anyway, one year ago, I had that nervous-excitement feeling. Friends were traveling from their respective colleges on a Tuesday night to celebrate the day I had anticipated for 21 years.I would no longer bitch to my mom about being the youngest in my group of friends. About this milestone, she kept saying, “Then what will you have to look forward to?”

My response was always a quick, “Reduced car insurance at 25.”I don’t even pay car insurance, and if I did, I am not going to be as elated about that on my 25th birthday as I was about legally drinking on my 21st.

I am becoming a grown-up before my very eyes. I am on the cusp of graduation. This birthday marks the last that will go hand in hand with a back-to-school shopping trip. I recently moved out of Oakland – because four years there was enough – and into a one-bedroom apartment on the South Side. I am too old to deal with roommates’ antics, and my last two roommates showed me just how disrespectful people can be.

Independence flowed through my veins as I placed each piece of furniture into my new place. It flowed just as it had when I flashed my ID last August 27th, because this year I don’t need someone else to live with me, and last year I didn’t need someone else to buy my alcohol for me.

Alas, flashing that ID isn’t all that exciting anymore, but when I hit 25 it probably will be, because someone is acknowledging the remnants of my youth.

I know what you all are saying,mcm: “It’s not like she’s turning 30.” No, I’m not turning 30. I am just hitting that point in life where all things are uncertain.

This time next year, I’ll be a rookie writer at a publication, at best. At worst, I’ll still be a waitress at Improv. But I don’t know which it will be, or what the in-between is. Will I be in Pittsburgh still? Or will luck shine down upon me and whisk me away to New York City to join the ranks of the Village Voice or, my ultimate dream, Rolling Stone? Or will I head west to Los Angeles where I’ll team up with MTV’s Bunim/Murray Productions? Probably not, but maybe these are the things that will make me look forward to b-day number 30.

Until then, I’ll bask in what time remains where I don’t have to worry about mortgages, health insurance or cooking a holiday dinner to impress my in-laws. Until then, I’ll go out on weeknights, weekends and days in between. I’ll go to the upcoming Lynyrd Skynyrd show at Star Lake, excuse me, the Post-Gazette Pavilion, and I will revel in the fact that I was too young to sport a mullet when they were in style – if you can call that a style – much less keep it with me for 20 years.

Happy birthday to me!