Two Decades Old

Twenty years ago today, I danced my way out of my mother's womb, while my dad was in the other room watching the "The Rockers" with the WWF tag team championship. The doctor held me up, welcoming me to the world in an act I can only guess was like "The Lion King," and I pooped on his brand new shoes. Some would argue that I haven't changed a bit over the past twenty years, but I think I have. I've grown a few feet taller, I know have enough hair to put pomade in, and I can not only walk but also run, jump, and kick (if only for shortened periods of time).

Although it seems that turning twenty has even less milestones attached to it than turning nineteen. Aside from successfully completely two decades of time, what else is there? The entire age of twenty is overshadowed by the largest, and final, entry into manhood: the magical age of twenty-one. Just a few days ago someone asked me how old I would be, and when I told them twenty they replied, "Only one year until the big twenty-one!" Great... I can't wait. Why don't I just put myself in a freezer and sleep the year off? I would if there wasn't a mid-term election around the corner.

I had a great birthday, with friends and family partying at my house over a Cold Stone Creamery ice cream cake, and folks IMing me and calling me to wish me a happy birthday. My Aunt got Danny a bubble gun, so everything in the house was covered in orange-scented dish soap-bubbles. The Dwellers even called me and sang over the phone. A good time was had by all.