Today, I am turning 20. This means that I will officially qualify as "relatively mature." I will no longer be a teenager and can no longer justify teenage angst, enjoy teenage traumas or engage in teenage shenanigans. Damn.

Nineteen is the most wonderful age there is (or at least the most wonderful of the ages I've experienced), in that you can be as mature or childish as you want and yet retain full legitimacy. Socially, you're old enough to drive anywhere, participate in most every activity and go to lots of clubs; you may look old enough to be in bars, and therefore probably enjoy those too.

Professionally, people take 19-year-olds somewhat seriously: you can work in an office and be efficient--as opposed to at 16, when you put on a business suit and it was seen as funny. At 19 you can undertake serious projects and achieve, but still expect to be helped along by friendly professionals because you're "still wet behind the ears," still a "teenager," still a touch "naive" and in need of general guidance.

But concurrently at 19 you're still in some respects "a kid," and therefore allotted some extra fun. You're most likely only a sophomore, the most comfortable college age in that you already know the ropes and don't need to learn any new ones for a while. You've (hopefully) already chosen a concentration, but no further decisions regarding the rest of your life are pressing. The world of Sophomore Anonymity that Harvard has conveniently arranged for you encourages social adventurousness; the administration cares deeply about the still-learning first-years and job-bound seniors; OCS and thesis advisors have already begun to follow juniors around. But for 19-year-old sophomores, as long as you don't dip into the wide world of Academic Probation and remember to get your study card signed, you're pretty much left to your own devices.

This said, it's the perfect year to explore. You're "only 19," so it's okay. The same rules do not apply at 20. The phrase "I'm only 20" just doesn't have the same ring to it. The scope of a birthday celebration is always a good indicator of the coming year, and 20 is not an exciting birthday, not at all. Compared to the driving license of 16, the club opportunities of 18, the alcohol prospects of 21, the forecasts of 20 do not excite. In the words of Rebecca Windt '02, "Twenty is the age when you get a vacuum." You're too young to legally drink, but definitely old enough to vacuum. This is serious stuff. I don't want a vacuum. What would I possibly do with a vacuum? Clean? This is awful.

To add to the trauma, in turning 20 I am now officially not a prodigy. I really didn't think I was--I knew from the start that I was maybe talented but not a prodigy by any stretch of the imagination. But until now there was always a chance.

When I was 10, I wrote in my diary a list of goals, mimicking my favorite fictional character Anastasia's habit of listing random things in notebooks. Goal number three was to "write a book by the time I turn 12." At the time, I felt like this was a fair goal. I'd just finished reading a novel about a 12-year-old girl who'd written a fiction book and become famous; I gave myself two full years to complete the task.

Instead, age 12 passed (as did ages 13-19), and no book has been produced. I did make a valiant attempt last year, which is now sitting half-finished in a red folder labeled "My Book." But starting today, whenever I do get around to opening that red folder and finishing "My Book," there will be no media circus shouting my brilliance, no interviews to explain how my strong values pushed me to early success, no trip to the kid-friendly Rosie O'Donnell Show. My age will no longer end in "-teen," making me a tadpole in a big ocean just like everyone else, with no special accommodations for my teenage innocence.

I heard Howard Stern comment once, "I don't feel like a grown-up. Do you? I'm 48, and my kids seem to think I know something special." Not that Howard Stern is the end-all be-all of mature adults. Still, he definitely qualifies as an adult, if by nothing other than age. When I was eight, much like Howard Stern's kids, I thought that 20-year-olds were really experienced, knowledgeable, grown-up people. Forty-year-olds were ancient. But now I live in a world where Britney Spears is younger than I am. Almost six months younger.

When you're younger, anyone who is successful and older somehow had more time than you did, more opportunities, some special knowledge. But this is no longer the case. Twenty-year-olds are still kids to me. They do all the same stupid stuff that I do. But every once in a while I'll catch myself watching 20-year-olds that I don't know personally, on MTV or the like, and I think of how old they look. These are adults. They do the same stuff I do. Therefore, I'm an adult. How odd.

Twenty is a more understated birthday than the others, a quiet affirmation of adulthood, a small indication of the official end of childhood, the last suggestion of innocence.

And to celebrate, you get a vacuum. Hoo ya.