Ponder the McRib. A thick, smoky cut of meat, slathered with tangy barbecue sauce, coated with crisp, tasty onions: truly the greatest sandwich ever created. And what’s more, it arrives annually, lingering for the one sweet month of January–made sweeter with the occurrence of my birthday. I’ve always suspected McDonald’s of doing so on purpose, as a gift to me.

However, the myriad of joys that typically surround this precious time of year are to be much more intense than usual in 2002, for this birthday is to be my twenty-first. The McRib never tasted so delicious.

Yet, I’m discovering that this transition to legal drinking status is as fraught with reflection as it is surrounded by celebration. I sit now, looking through photo albums filled with triple shots, house parties, kegstands and beer bongs. Cherished memories, stained in alcohol and besotted with hangovers. I remember running from the police (if you, dear reader, are with a law-enforcement agency, please disregard this) while drunk on some occasions; I also recall being caught by the police on others.

Part of me cannot help but wonder exactly why I have been an outlaw while doing something one day, only to have the passing of a night make the same activity wholly acceptable. In other words, why is the drinking age 21?

Certainly this is a question we have all had at one time or another. Yet, only a fool would cherish illusions of changing it any time soon. The federal government allots a substantial sum to each state for highway repair and maintenance costs, without which many municipalities would suffer from poor roads. However, these funds are to be withheld from any state that chooses to set its legal drinking age lower than 21.

And Uncle Sam has more than sufficient reason to do so. Say what you will, there has been an extremely significant drop in traffic fatalities whenever the drinking age has been raised. With such hard facts, rest assured that the United States will never lower it, regardless of whatever protest under-agers may muster.

So freshmen, sophomores, Doogie Howser-like child-genius juniors and seniors, I’m afraid you can kiss all hopes of legal bar-going goodbye, at least until you turn that magic age. And as your elder, I understand your frustration: it may seem extremely distant, a dream that never will come true. So you ask my opinion as to whether I feel that the laws are unfair, and enforcement of them unjust. I courageously answer ? no.

I know, I seem a hypocrite, a duplicitous individual. After all, haven’t I willingly broken the very laws I’m now defending? Yes, and I am glad to have had the chance. I look at it this way: we’re all college kids. The majority of us have intentions of doing important and socially laudable things with our lives. We want to be a little crazy, to take a few risks: but we don’t want to end up in actual trouble, with a record that may taint our adult lives.

So, we drink. We could smoke tobacco ? but that’s entirely legal now. We could smoke pot (and probably do), but that might as well be legal.

So, we drink. We sneak into clubs, we get fake IDs, we do whatever we can to flagrantly abuse these laws, knowing that the consequences for being caught are in most cases hardly serious enough to foster anything but a sense of excitement for taking the risk (unless one is drunk driving, which is not at all acceptable or funny). We have fun breaking these laws, being outside of societal rules while being entirely in the mainstream.

So, we drink. It’s really like a rite of passage, something to test us and give us memories. But alas, my journey has ended–I have done my time and broken my laws. I have enjoyed the experience of a college kid, as thoroughly as it may be enjoyed.

This January marks the end of an epoch for me, one that has made me a better (or at least more interesting) person for disobeying the legal drinking age. It is this experience that I wish to preserve by supporting the drinking age as it now stands; I’m confident that most will agree.

However, I really wish that McDonald’s would serve alcohol, like in some European countries. I’d love a beer with my McRib.