Sorry to about three-fourths of my readership if I am being insensitive, but being 21 really is the best thing ever. Now before you underage Coupe’s-dwelling minors scoff and look away, realize we 21-year-olds have paid our dues. Nobody waits “soooo much longer” to turn 21, considering that age is a consistent, measurable value. If you want to be “that reader” who factors in leap years, then I do not want you here anyway. I feel as if I am a new person now that I am 21 – with five more pounds of beer weight and 500 fewer dollars of spending money, how can I not reflect on this nascent lifestyle shift?
I have lived in Charlottesville for four years now and I’ve even stayed here for a summer. But the community has never felt so accessible as it did the moment my ID flipped from vertical to horizontal. The DMV still has not sent me the coveted horizontal ID, but let us pretend for the sake of the metaphor and my maturity that it has. Ironically, I think I started to frequent Charlottesville community events – alcoholic and not – more than Corner bars after I turned 21.
The most palpable change the wonderful age of 21 brings about involves a shift in mentality: I will never be denied. Unless I am trying to rent a car or attend a black-tie event wearing my coveted Chacos – which, if you know me, is a distinct possibility – I will never, ever hear, “Are you serious? I cannot accept this.” I realize that my impending job application process will certainly involve denial and rejection, but I can only hope it will not be as public and humiliating as pre-21 life. Besides these outliers, the prime barrier to experiencing life evaporated on my 21st birthday. It is certainly not that I failed to live before, but rather that now I have distinctly fewer qualms about going out and diving in. Money certainly factors in as a qualm, but you can always work harder to supplement a newfound lifestyle. The most incredible work ethic and willpower, however, cannot magically turn you 21.
To the underage readers who’ve made it this far, here’s a lesson: Do not wait like I did to grasp at a community accessible regardless of age. The other Thursday night, I went to Carter Mountain to hear a live music set and to see the sun do the same. Sure, they had wine smoothies and diabetic-shock-inducing sangria, but the point was to pull out a picnic blanket and sit cross-legged with a close group of friends. There were the most endearing young married couples on date nights with their babies; there were dogs in purses and dogs off leashes; there were children on leashes and middle school hormones unleashing. Charlottesville came out to play. It was a fascinating way to observe a community as diverse as the front page of any college admissions handbook. No ID says who can and cannot experience this sort of atmosphere – just who can bring a wine bottle along on the picnic.
Similarly, in just a month I have gone to Monticello’s Heritage Day Festival – a haven for the granola and kombucha proponents among us; or in other words, all Environmental Thought & Practice majors. I’ve also been to Dr. Ho’s Humble Pie for a delicious slice of hipster pizza (apparently they knew about crust before it was cool) and Fridays After Five on the Downtown Mall. Most recently, I attended the Top of the Hops Beer Festival. But that last one, my friends, is only for the of-age crowd or the unfortunate soul who has to DD a car full of hooligans who just potentially consumed 25 full cups worth of beer … each. Sorry again, Megan.
Listing my recent exploits is intended to inspire you rather than stand as a regurgitation of my social calendar. For me, the magic number was 21. The more I explore, however, the more I realize that all you need to take on Charlottesville is a willing group of friends, a car that can make it up some monster hills, and the ability to reorient your mental map of Charlottesville from Corner-centric to Blue Ridge-bound.
Elizabeth’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at e.stonehill@cavalierdaily.com.
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