Happy birthday to me

I turn 22 today, and it's the first birthday that I don't really care about. I'm not upset or anything -- I'm obviously not worried about being old and, even though I haven't really accomplished any of the things I had planned to by this age (like being a rock star or writing a well-received novel), I feel like I still have time (though considerably less than I did a year ago). It's just that 22 doesn't really mean anything to me. Think about it: Every year until you turn 21, your birthday is a step toward a goal, like having pubic hair or being able to drink legally. Now, the biggest milestone in my near future is being able to rent a car without having to pay a special fee. Hoorah!
Maybe it's just me, but I can't help thinking that, from here on out, every birthday is just another step toward the grave. And, while I'm sure I still have plenty of steps to go (unless God strikes me down for making fun of Mother Theresa), there's something kind of sad about that.
So, I think I'll skip the big celebrations and just lay low for this one -- maybe sit back, watch a movie, and think about the future. Or maybe I'll get cracking on that novel -- after all, you never know when the Big Guy is going to get around to checking out your blog...