On the day before my 18th birthday, I went to see the guy I had hooked up with one month earlier. I should mention that he was: a) my first kiss and b) fifteen. We had a great time; he treated me to a delicious lunch and then we walked around town, exploring several parks. In one of these parks, we fooled around a bit — more than a bit, really — while lying on the grass. (There were almost no people around, but it was still quite embarrassing and not something I would normally do). All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed how we spent the day and I think he’s a pretty cool guy even though I have no feelings toward him.

What he doesn’t know is that I didn’t just choose that date in honor of my upcoming birthday. I mean, I did. But not just as an early birthday present. The real reason is metaphorical. Excuse my reference to The Fault in Our Stars, but, like Augustus Waters, I am fond of metaphors. To me, turning eighteen symbolizes passage into adulthood — not just in the legal sense, but pertaining to my sense of self. I now regard myself as more capable of making sensible decisions, more responsible for making them, and — though I may not seem so — more mature. Which is why the silly larks of childhood, like necking and petting in a park with a boy I barely know, should stay in childhood.
But the symbolism goes in another direction as well. On the one hand, I have bid goodbye to childish foolery; but on the other hand, I accomplished as much of it as possible before time ran out. In essence, I squeezed as much value as I could into my last day of seventeen-year-oldness. And because of that… no regrets!

Not to mention a day later he would have been underage. Not that we would’ve done anything serious, but all the same. It’s purely symbolic.