I really came close to biting it last week when I was taking my drunk shower. I have gotten pretty good at maintaining balance and coordination while sipping on a Natty Light and simultaneously cleaning my pores and crevices. I came very close to breaking my neck when I slipped on my ass while lip synching “Lady Marmalade.” Like you don’t know the words. It seemed I dropped some Pert Plus on the surface to make it quite slick. I was waxing and waning on that tile, baby, and I swear my life flashed before my eyes. I considered grabbing a copy of Glamour I keep in my bathroom as reading material and spreading the issue across the floor for added support. But then I thought how that might look if I perished in those conditions. How awkward would that phone call home to my parents be? I thank my lucky stars.

This weekend I turn 21. That is kind of scary. Each birthday has been memorable in some way or another. I remember turning eight and how I cried at a nice restaurant because the whole place sang “Happy Birthday.” I was shy; sue me. Or 11, when I had a respiratory attack because I was so excited about the buzz my sleepover generated that week at lunch. Or 19, when I finally had to come to terms with my inability to grow facial hair and realize that “it wasn’t going to get any bigger.”

If I had to pick my favorite age, I would have to go with 12. Yeah, 12 was a good year. Twelve was when you had your first girlfriend, even though you didn’t really obsess that much about girls. You still got weekly allowances — well, some kids here still do, ironically. Zack Morris was the only kid our age who owned a cell phone. You collected comic books or dolls and sold golf balls or lemonade, if you really were hard up for cash. You just rode your bike for fun. Summers seemed as though they carried on for years. And instead of crappy summer jobs, days were spent at baseball practice or swimming. You were always picked first in gym class. Yeah, twelve was alright, and it seems like a real long time ago. But this is unprecedented; this one’s the party. So, what will I do?

My two good friends are flying in from home to assure that I “do 21 right.” My buddy, Ian, wanted to toss midgets for his 21st. Although tempting, I kind of want to keep mine a bit low key, a little bit old school. I have actually developed something of an itinerary for my special day, a way to pay homage to all the people and all the fun times I have had thus far as an underage delinquent in our fair city. It reads as follows: 6 p.m. — Begin pre-gaming ritual: Get signed into Clafin Hall and shotgun a case of Busch Light in the 3rd floor bathroom. 8 p.m. — Thank Wonder Bar for all its cooperation through the years by taking any ID I have ever offered. Once I gave them a library card. 8:07 p.m. — Pay a visit to Copperfields (a.k.a. Chester Copperpot’s) and pee in the sink for tradition’s sake. 10 p.m. — Go to Kinvara and laugh at the bouncer because even though he could bench twice my weight, he now has to let me in. And my buddy Mike, too. 3 a.m. — Walk around Ashford and Gardner streets looking for some afterhour gathering of kids nobody knows, but walk in anyway. 3:45 a.m. — Bring a backpack full of OE, gin and Mountain Dew to Chi Phi or SAE, because as we all know, unless you’re sporting a C-cup, beer can be hard to come by.

Now that I am turning 21, I figure I can finally go wherever I want in Boston. I will never have to make sure I have backup or remember an obscure zip code in rural Iowa. I can now finally enter all those over-21 adult websites and see what all the fuss is about. I can gamble on Maine high school bowling matches online and have “a six pack of beer” in my overpriced, under-used, BU-issued Micro Fridge.

Don’t get me wrong: I know 21 will be fun. I’m sure I will drink considerably this weekend. I mean, isn’t that the thing that you have to do? I’ll do my best tackling 21 shots, throwing up at South Station, kissing a German-Shepard – I will absorb it all like a true gentleman. If you see me out, wish me a happy birthday. How often does one turn 21? But I’d be lying if I didn’t say part of me wishes I was still riding my bike to baseball practice.