I celebrated my 22nd birthday last Wednesday.

Actually I celebrated it several times: once with my family, once with my roommates, once with my friends.

I love birthdays.

The thing is, when I would tell people how old I was, I was always met with the same reply, “Oh, you’re getting old. Twenty-two isn’t much fun.”

Old! What? Twenty-two is the prime of life, I think.

The more I thought about it though, the more I had to agree with part of their statement. Even though I really enjoyed mine, 22 isn’t really a birthday you look forward to.

When you’re 13, you’re just excited to be able to say “teen” while describing your own age. Also, in our family, 13 was the magical age when girls were allowed to get their ears pierced. The right to pierce was the right to live, or so we felt.

When you’re 16 you get to drive a car, plus you get to sing all kinds of ’50s and ’60s songs about how great it is to be 16. “Sweet Little 16,” “You’re 16, You’re Beautiful, and You’re Mine,” “Sixteen Candles” and all of that.

If you buy into the lyrics of those songs, you’d believe that some kind of mysterious metamorphosis occurs overnight when a girl goes from 15 to 16.

All of a sudden she is a gorgeous young woman, vivacious and voluptuous.

Depending on your family or older relatives, one might also get teased by the “Sweet 16 and never been kissed,” phrase.

Twenty-first birthday celebrations are usually the craziest and the most drawn out.

You can pretty much get free drinks for about six months from people who want to take you out for your 21st birthday.

I had a great time celebrating mine on several different occasions, but I was almost disappointed when I went out for my first time being a legal beagle — they didn’t even check my ID. I went up to the bar and said, “I would like a fun birthday drink because it’s my 21st birthday!”

A fun drink would emerge, and no checking of IDs was had. I began to wonder why I hadn’t tried that when I was only 20.

Rats. Missed opportunity.

Twenty-two. Double twos. Now, I can go into anywhere I want and feel confident that I am of age. Or so I thought. I was dancing the night away at an Ames establishment the other night and the police came in.

Despite my agedness, I still felt a little nervous at the sight of the men in uniform. Habit? Would they recognize me as the girl who was driving 74 in a 55 zone two years ago?

I’ve never been one to hide emotions, and this case was no different. Apparently, I was looking guilty, because one sauntered over and asked for my ID.

Being the organized person that I am, it took a few moments to paw through my wallet before I finally produced it, along with the attachment that renewed it through the mail.

I learned that policemen aren’t much for chatting and don’t really like it when they guess incorrectly about your age. Not much friendly banter was had with this man.

I triumphantly slipped my ID back into my wallet and danced off into the crowd, legal as can be.

If people think 22 is dullsville, what will happen when I’m 23? I don’t want to discontinue celebrations simply because the birthday isn’t a historical one for having fun.

Perhaps I need to start a tradition for each year coming up. It works for wedding anniversaries — your 25th is your silver anniversary, 50th is your golden anniversary and so on.

From now on, I will consider 23rd birthdays to be your jellybean birthdays. Jellybeans for all who are 23.

For those turning 24, it’s tootsie rolls. Tootsie rolls all around for you 24-year-olds!

I know it isn’t gold and silver, but we’re students and not the three wise men.

We can’t be buying all of our friends gold and silver!

For those celebrating today, happy birthday, and if it’s YOUR 22nd, live it up and ignore all no-fun comments. Declare your theme to be donuts.

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Joanne Roepke is a senior in journalism and mass communication from Aurora.