It's only four days after spring break and I'm already swamped. Among other things, I have a psychology thesis prospectus to write for Monday, a seminar paper due Wednesday, the usual FM layout grind all weekend, and HRTV commitments out the wazoo. Celebrating my 21st birthday today isn't the most pressing thing on my mind right now. In fact, I didn't even go to the Border Cafe for the traditional "you-just-turned-21" midnight margarita. "What? How can you not live it up on your 21st birthday?" you ask incredulously. Am I such a loser that I can't even kick back today?

Probably. I also don't drink alcohol. The only thing that being 21 means to me is that I can now legitimately get into a bar and watch other people drink. Well that, and I'm able to rent a car as long as long as I pay a surcharge because I'm under 25.

Turning 21 in this country seems to be the secular equivalent of being bar mitzvah-ed. (Not that I have too much experience with it; I refer you to my byline.) Isn't it odd that we earn the law's permission to libate ourselves silly after we earn the right to vote for President or the risk of being tried as an adult and sent to jail for embezzling from "An Evening With Champions"? At 18, we're entrusted with legal control over and responsibility for our actions. Three years later, we're granted the legal right to get drunk and risk losing self-control and abusing that responsibility.

I don't feel like I'm missing out on any rites of passage.

I have no problem with other people's drinking when they do it because they view alcoholic beverages as aesthetic delights. It just ain't my bag, baby--one whiff of wine and I have flashbacks from childhood of having to swig Robutussin to cure a bad cough. But since I've sniffed some pretty strong potpourri in my time, I can appreciate the value of a good buzz.

I do have a problem with drunk people, though. Don't get me wrong, some of my best friends are drunk people. But if you're going to be an asshole when you're drunk, you should be strong enough to act like that when you're fully in control of yourself. Don't hide behind excuses of drunkenness to later explain your lack of restraint, what-ever the transgression may be, from the merely obnoxious to the egregiously criminal.

Then there's the whole notion of alcohol as social lubricant (e.g., the "To-ga! To-ga! To-ga!" approach). I really don't think I'm missing out on that, either. I go to parties because I enjoy the company I keep and the people I meet. What does it say about your attitudes towards the people you're dealing with when you feel you have to artificially shed some inhibitions in order to enjoy their presence more than you could while sober?

But enough diatribe. Drink if you got 'em.

My teetotaling stems partly from the fact that I'm a Muslim. The general Muslim consensus when interpreting the Quran, Islam's scripture, is that drinking alcohol is what we semi-religious people call a "sin." Just as importantly though, I've never received a compelling answer to my question, "Why should I drink?"

So here I am, a 21-year-old college student, soon to find himself amidst of end-of-classes parties, reading period parties, hush-hush during-finals parties, post-finals parties, Commencement parties and summer housing "Woohoo, no Senior Tutor to bust our chops, just the cops!" parties. I enjoy my fair share of lively soirees, joking around, chatting it up, listening to music, enjoying the company of strangers. These all qualify me as a reasonably healthy and mildly hedonistic Harvard student. Except that I don't drink. However do I cope?.

Lots of synthetic drugs, for one. (Senior Tutors, that is what we semi-humorous people call a "joke." ) Actually, the key is to master the art of vicarious drunkenness. Step one: when I get to any generic Harvard party, my first stop is the drink table. I pour myself a rum and Coke minus the rum and walk around confidently sipping my beverage. Security comes in knowing that as long as I'm drinking something, I'm invisible among the thronging partygoers. Baaaaaah.

Unfortunately, this need for conformity has often left me very desperate for non-alcoholic beverages. On one occasion, the only thing I could drink was some concentrated citrus mixer. Downing my whole glass left me a little woozy. Someone offered to call a shuttle for me.

After an hour or so in the dimly lit room, I'm gradually surrounded by people who are slowly losing their sense of balance with each drink they have. This radically disregulates my own equilibrium, because my reference points for approximate "shoulder level" are now undulating wildly. Slowly, I begin to stagger along, bumping into people with impunity, reveling in the knowledge that at this point into the night, they probably don't give a damn either.

With subwoofers cranking the bass out with a vengeance, the deafening music forces me to shout over the din if I want to have a conversation.

Because my voice contains neither enough bass nor enough treble to project more than two inches from my mouth, loud parties require me to commit gross violations of people's personal space in order to be heard. Just to be sure I get my point across, I supplement my shouting with sweeping hand gestures that occasionally smack someone behind me upside the head. This, together with my penchant for incoherent rambling, often sends my way the accusation, "You are so drunk!"

When I--drained by all the noise, shouting and epileptic seizure-inducing strobe lights--fall asleep in a chair during said party, comments about my having passed out are passed along to me the next few days.

It's quite an exhausting process, this imitative inebriation. I can't imagine why anyone would want to go in for the real thing, what with all the vomiting and such. Give me a six-pack of Diet Coke any day.