20nothing.com

If I had a dollar for every time a boy has tried to impress me by telling me what type of car he drives, I would be able to afford to buy the car myself.
“I could drive you home tomorrow in my Lexus,” He will say, with emphasis on what we be riding come sunrise, not what we will be riding in the dark. Which, obviously, makes me wonder. Call me superficial, but all it takes to get me into bed is hard abs and a great personality. Once upon a time, I admit, it was just abs. Considering I learned to drive a car in a Mercedes, automobiles have always failed to impress me or simply remind me of my dad screaming, “Foot On The Fucking Break Now!” as loud as he could. Aging is what has revved up the importance of personality.

Being the only person in my social circle who is over twenty-five, a recreational hazard of sorts for anyone who deems “twenty-one” to be a Great Personality, my girl friend requested that I accompany her to rent a car. Not needing to impress a member of the opposite sex with her joy stick, she decided to save money on it instead. Enter the old person (hi!) who is apparently responsible enough, via age, to not ram the shit out of a slow driver. Hypothetically.
“Ok, it is all sorted. We just need your identification,” the man at the discount car dealership said. It was a type of place that, if regulations were not in place, would have rented someone a horse and cart and charged them four thousand dollars for the privilege.
I opened my purse, ignored the discount alcohol cards that are usually sufficient evidence to identify me, and tried to locate my license. A little piece of plastic that not only confirms I am over the age of consent but also highlights just how bad I can look under harsh lights with a hangover. The fact that I have never slept with a doorman at a bar is, really, no surprise.
“Um,” I said. “This is awkward.”
“You don’t have your license?” my girl friend asked, shocked, rightfully thinking that no-one could be so stupid as to not bring a drivers license to a car rental shop.
“I am definitely twenty-five,” I begged to the man behind the counter. Which is a rarity. Usually I am trying to convince boys that I am twenty-two. I fete that impresses them just about as much as my excitement over four wheels and an engine.
“Sorry, no deal,” the car Nazi declared. Hundreds of dollars later, We were cruising around the streets of Los Angeles in a brand new Mustang, a car that really, would, impress even the harshest of automobile critics.

American bars are different to every other bar in the world. The twenty-one year old drinking age changes the demographic of cliental and definition of “good personality”. While I am accustomed to Australian bars, where eighteen-year-olds have driven their Dad’s Mercedes for the occasion, American bars are filled with men who spent their twenties working to be able to afford the luxury car. So one can’t exactly blame them for thinking it is their best quality. In some cases, it probably is.
“What the fuck are you doing?” LA Girl Friend asked in between my drunken conversation with a boy who looked like Johnny Depp. “You are about to hook up with Johnny Depp In A Blender. Stop drinking.”
“No!” I assured her. “He is my type!”
Thirty minutes later, Johnny Depp In A Blender and I were sitting on the couches when the topic of age came up.
“How old are you?” He asked.
Figuring I had already impressed him, I told him the truth.
“Wow. You are young.” I fell in love with him immediately. “I am forty-three.”
Call me superficial, but I got into a car and drove away so quickly, because for all of my flaws, sleeping with someone seven years younger than my dad is not one of them.

On the surface, age defines us in every single social situation. The year you were born is the key that allows you to have sex, buy alcohol and drive a car. For some reason, in Australia, such three landmarks happen in the one year. Consequently, old people scratch their heads wondering why drunk-driving and public indecency is a growing epidemic, while young people drink Jack Daniels and have a threesome on their way to the party. Globally, the age of adulthood is different, with a standard three years in between one lands freedoms and another’s. The subjectivity of age, therefore, has always been obvious to me and, unless looking for another twenty-one year old to sleep with, has always been irrelevant. I have met eighteen year old mothers who have more maturity in their little finger than I will ever hope to have in my entire body. I have been chatted up by forty-three year old men who don’t even know the beauty of three syllable words. Being twenty-five and, therefore, the most responsible person in the room, is a theory essentially squashed when said twenty-five year old is the one who didn’t bring identification of age. Maturity, responsibility and intelligence, can therefore, not rest on the objective confines of a birth date. I have learned, through the various different experiences I have had with people of all ages, that a number has a small amount of relevance in Who someone is. A generation gap can be ignored by some people and can’t be ignored by others. The times it is relevant is subjective. But it is the personality that, overall, actually matters.

An I.Q test would probably be more beneficial than I.D in every situation on the planet.

Driving myself crazy with the Los Angeles dating scene, I took time off to go to the gym. A place filled with hard abs and, maybe, good personalities. Because I go to a gay gym, no one is really impressed by me and so sweating out to Guns N Roses is a relatively peaceful process.
“Have you signed the responsibility waiver?” the pretty boy behind the counter asked me.
“Excuse me?”
“If you are under twenty-one, you have to sign a form.”
A drove away from the gym feeling better than if I had done an actual work out. He didn’t even ask for evidence that I was, only, twenty.