It's my birthday. I am an adult forever now.

18 years old.

That's the age I am now -- or will be on Tuesday, at least. It's here. I am answering, "18," when my mother's friends ask my age, and my mother isn't correcting me and saying, "Well, you're not 18 yet." Because I am now. It's come without lavishness or extremes. It's come with having to work on my birthday and having to pack and having to be frugal. This seems somehow appropriate.

If you ask me, 17 is the best age. Recklessness sets in. Reality also sets in, but so does rebellion. In some ways, this is okay. This is how it is supposed to go, because this is the year where you learn what you're really made of. 17 years old somehow manages to sound chicer than 18. 17 sounds youthful and enviable. 17 sounds like an age where you have a political opinion but the government won't respect it yet so you have you yell it at the top of your lungs, even if that political opinion is "I DON'T KNOW ENOUGH ABOUT POLITICS TO MAKE AN INFORMED DECISION" like mine was. 

17 was an age of caffeine and curfew somehow existing somewhat peacefully under the same roof. 17 was a collision of childhood and adulthood. 17 was a mixture of terror and heartbreak and glory and getting my first debit card. 17 was offices and open spaces, was typewriters and laptops, was finite and infinity, was rage and was euphoria, was FriendGroup and was empty rooms.

17 was the most paradoxical year of my life. This is extremely literal.

13, 14, 15, 16, they're all just years to prepare you to be the teenager everyone talks about. The one in the 80's movies or on MTV or the one you imaged you'd be on the last night of being 12 years old. 17 is a cliche and an answer and a fulfillment of a life-so-far prophesy.

And then your birthday comes again, your birthday came last year, too, and has come again just like you always knew it would, but never believed it really would, and then it's August 12, and it is the last day of being 17, and tomorrow you are 18, and for some reason you weren't expecting that one. That's a curveball because even though it still ends in "teen," you aren't that anymore. You've fulfilled your prophesy and now the government has to respect your political opinion, and you didn't see that one coming either because you haven't sorted that out yet.

You are 18, and you are an adult forever.

I am 18, and I am an adult forever. That is the age I am now.

So this one's for you, mom. And you, dad. Thank you for getting me through year 17 and all the years before it. This one's for you, Sophie and Hazel and Millie, and I hope I've been some sort of good example. This one's for you, Kaitlyn, for being my good example. This one's for you, Avery, for being my partner in crime. This one's for you, Emily, for sticking around. This one's for you Hailey, for being my inspiration. This one's for you, Morgan, for being my sanity. This one's for you, Hayley, for being my soul sister. This one's for you, Sally and Alys and Madi and Cecelia and Indigo and Dakota, for being the next step. This one's for you, dear reader, for coming along with me on this journey, because I am now 18 years old, and I am adult forever, and even though it isn't the same as being 17, it is now time for me to be 18, and I think I am ready.

Here's to 18 years. Here's to being 18. Here's to taking over the world at 18 years old.

And it really did come with lavishness and extremes. It has come with bells and whistles and money and kisses, at least metaphorically. It came with a year of car rides and phone calls and hair dye and I fell in love once this year, but not with the person I thought I would, because the person I fell in love with was myself.

"Let them eat cake." -Marie Antoinette (allegedly, but me this week, definitely)
Happy birthday,
Addy