Old like me

Take a trip back with me, back to the time when Pogs were heading for extinction and "Goosebumps" books became the treasured most assets of savvy, in-the-know 10-year-old collectors. In those days, what I had learned in kindergarten really was all I needed to know, and by middle school my staggering sixth-grade genius seemed unmistakable. Yet despite my best efforts, adults still ran my life. \nIn spite of my lucrative investments in juice-box futures, it was grown-ups who decided when I'd eat, when I'd sleep and whether I was sick enough to play hooky. They were allowed to drive, they were allowed to drink, heck, they even earned paychecks for finishing their long-division assignments. Mr. Webber paid me in stickers. \nI envied the proportional relationship between age and authority. Despite my keen understanding of international Beanie Baby exchange rates ("One day these will be worth billions, literally billions!"), I remained confused. Why, oh why, would grown-ups sacrifice power and respect by lying about their age?\nThe question plagued my pre-pubescent brilliance for years until an epiphany late Wednesday night. I had always assumed that my parents were embarrassed, even ashamed that they had sold their soul for a Volvo and a two-car garage.\nNot so.\nYou see, I turned 22 this week. Gone were the cupcakes and candles, replaced with keg beer and sake bombs. As far as I could tell from the pounding headache and empty fifth of Jack Daniel's next to my pillow, the celebration lasted all night. The next morning my mouth tasted like dead animal and cigarettes, a minor discomfort compared to the bitter reality that set in soon after the post-alcoholic haze had cleared: "That's it, Kirk. There's nothing left."\nDesperation, I soon realized, was the reason people lie about their age. A desperate, entirely hopeless attempt to relive the bygone days, the days when one's expectations for the coming year made the previous year's adventures seem small and insignificant.\nI had a similar experience when I turned 18. I woke up one morning, and just like that I was personally responsible for my actions and eligible to stand trial for murder. Fortunately, being a legal adult provides some compensation. Angered by the fact that only men are required to register for selective service, I decided to take advantage of my newly granted privileges. By noon I had purchased a stack of nudie magazines and a carton of cigarettes, which I subsequently distributed to the homeless people downtown. Time has passed, however, and the novelty of purchasing Camels and pornography has worn off.\nThe same with alcohol: At first getting carded was a bold, new experience that I relished with every dollar spent. But nothing lasts. The excitement has faded in much the same way the value of my Beanie Baby retirement fund has declined since the early '90s (and I was so sure, too).\nLife is all downhill from here, folks. Just ask your parents. I'm already counting down the days until I'm eligible for senior-citizen discounts.