Palmerston North's Samuel Lacy: Turning 21 another tick in the calendar

There is no law or natural phenomena that dictate I must get stupid drunk and eat cake on my 21st birthday. Photo / Judith Lacy

Opinion:

I was born so long ago I can't remember when it was. I can't remember much of it at all. But there's a certain piece of paper, and two people who happen to be my parents, that maintain my birth occurred on June 6, 2000.

It's been almost 21 years since that day. This means a lot to a lot of people, but none of those people happen to be me. It is very strange, and yet very common, for there to be such a fuss around one person, and that one person can't understand why.

I can't keep count of how many people have told me that I'm "coming of age", or that I'll "finally be a man". Plenty has been made about this one day which separates childhood from adulthood, creating a solid and definite barrier between those two periods of my life.

But it's far more complex than that.

"Growing up" is a long, drawn-out process that may never end for some. Wisdom, competence and independence are common traits we associate with adulthood, but was I grown up when I received my first payslip at 15 years old? Will I still be a kid until I learn how to change a tyre?

Maybe I won't learn what constitutes "coming of age" until several years (or decades) after it happens.

Or maybe the notion of 21 as the beginning of adulthood is a relic of a bygone era. New parents, husbands, wives, homeowners – you know, typical grown-up people doing grown-up stuff – just happened to be younger than they are today.

My grandmother was 21 when she had her first child. My own mother was 22 when she got married, and she'd be the first to say she was too young for it. I can't see myself owning a home, marrying someone, working in a non-entry-level job for a good long while. There's a very clear trend.

Or maybe I'm reading too much into it. Birthdays are meant to be fun, after all, and that they invoke those frustrating age-related crises is seemingly an unfortunate side-effect.

At its core, a 21st birthday really does not mean that much. It is just another tick in the calendar, one of the tens of thousands of days in a lifetime, and there is no law or natural phenomena that dictate I must get stupid drunk and eat cake on that day. I could spend it working or studying, like I do every other day, and not worry about it.

It may sound like I don't enjoy my own birthday because I'm "too grown up" or I "hate fun". I am going to enjoy my birthday. I'm seeing my family in Tauranga, I'll rest during the long weekend, and I won't even have to pay for dinner on the night of the 6th. That will be, undoubtedly, a good day.

But that could have happened at any other time of the year. October 14, for example, holds no real personal significance one way or the other, and I could very well buy myself plenty of chocolates and skip writing an essay and enjoy myself.

The long and storied tradition for 21st birthdays in New Zealand is for the celebrated person to do a yardie. Several pints of beer are poured into a yard-long glass, to be drunk all at once, without stopping for a breath. I haven't prepared myself for this. If I have to do one, I will probably vomit. I will possibly drown.

If being an adult means possessing the wisdom to avoid such irresponsibility, then a large number of new 21-year-olds are not adults. And if that's the case, why should it be anything more than a party?

• Samuel Lacy lives in Palmerston North and is studying at Massey University. He is the nephew of Guardian editor Judith Lacy.