This Was 22.

So I turned 23 last week. The title of Miley’s latest #banger. The number of that one basketball player from Space Jam. The age that girls start anticipating a ‘positive’ on a pregnancy test. That happens at 23, right? Totally basing it off TLC. Okay, so the age has no inherent significance, but after turning 21 and FINALLY being allowed to legally take 16-year-olds to R-rated movies, what age does? At this point, birthdays are no longer about the number—they’re about another year of your personal history going down in the books (and by books I mean Facebook archives). They’re also about having an entire day of directing everyone’s attention to how awesome you are. So in the selfish spirit of birthdays, I’d like for you to reminisce with me on the most action-packed, stupidest, best year of my life thus far. Here it is, guys—my 22, boiled down to a list of firsts:

• Graduated college.

• Took a semester of only classes taught in Spanish.

• Watched Gangnam Style about 75 times.

• Backpacked around Europe for a month.

• Went on a $300 Valentine’s date with someone I barely knew.

• Cruised around the Caribbean with hundreds of drunk college kids.

• Wore a full-body cow costume, in public.

• Stared at the Berlin Wall.

• Crept around the Red Light District.

• Spent 6 straight hours in Topshop.

• Learned what the Blue Light District is.

• Vowed to never google the Blue Light District.

• Fell for the Valentine. Hard.

• Ate four McDonald’s apple pies in one sitting.

• Finished a 30-day squat challenge.

• Visited someone in jail.

• Joined a bachelor party in New Orleans.

• Ran a 5K straight through.

• Googled the Blue Light District.

• Took a shot of absinthe.

• Learned how to cook seafood gumbo.

• Broke up with the Valentine.

• Sneaked into a graveyard.

• Bought champagne at the Eiffel Tower.

• Got accepted to law school.

• Made pancakes from scratch.

• Started a blog. 

Before I turned 23, I was terrified of being an age that Taylor Swift hasn’t taught me how I’m supposed to feel. But now that I am a fully-functioning 23-year-old (actually after 22, my brain is most definitely not working at full capacity), I know exactly what it means to be 23. It’s whatever the hell I want it to be. And I cannot wait for the next person who asks me how old I am, so I can purposefully ignore them. Because I’m 23. I do what I want.

Jesus. 22 was insane. Amazingly insane. But you guys, 22 isn’t all fun and drinking games. During the vacations, the taxi rides, the nights out, the trips to the gas station, everything—there is one question that comes up in absolutely every single conversation any 22-year-old has—“So what are you doing next year?” Once you’re 23, that ends. Not because you're done with awkward small-talk, nope, that's sadly eternal. But instead, people ask you “So, what are you doing?” Because, well, this is it- 23 is the present tense. 23 is the “next year” that you spent all of 22 planning for. Yes, 23 might look like a youth-crushing boulder of doom, but it’s actually just a massive rock that you need to start climbing. Your life is happening, starting now. Well not RIGHT now, because it’s midnight and we really need like, twelve Birthday Cake shots.

Okay - the actual morning of your birthday, your life is starting now.