Of all the birthdays I've had, my 23rd stands out as the most irrelevant.

Up through your teens, each birthday seems to be another step in a glorious progression towards maturity. There are of course the numerical milestones (my first entry into double digits was a big deal) but at a more basic level it seems that you're getting wiser and taller every time your birthday rolls around.

Your parents arbitrarily decide that you get to do something and explain that it's because you're a certain age — in my house, with Matt so close to my own age, these explanations quickly wore thin — and of course there are the societal distinctions that really are tied to your age.

It's these that become increasingly important as you enter the late teens and much of the internal validation you derive from your age goes away. Not completely, of course — in fact I don't think I've met anyone who doesn't conflate age with experience — but enough so that the legal and social distinctions are foremost in your mind.

And so with 17, I could see R-rated movies (and sing Homer Simpson's "When I Was 17"), with 18 I could vote and die for my country and all that, 19 was my last year as a teenager, 20 the first step into the mysterious twenties. When I turned 21 my body could finally process alcohol, and I had my first drink.

I stand by my opinion that, should a C-section be inevitable, you should schedule it so as to land your son or daughter's 21st birthday on a Friday or Saturday. Sure, that doesn't seem important, but you try getting any significant number of college students to hit the bars when they have class the next day.

Granted, my 21st fell on a Wednesday night and worked out well, but not everyone is so lucky. So expectant parents should keep this in mind; it could be the most thoughtful present you ever give.

Last year, I had the Flaming Lips' "When Yer 22" to listen to, and I was indisputably a 20-something, like all those people on t.v. It may not have been a very significant birthday, but maybe that was enough, that I was finally the first of many insignificant ages. I'd taken my first step into the vast wasteland between 21 and 27.

Is 25 significant? I've never thought of it that way. Twenty-four was the oldest I could ever really imagine myself being, back when I was in high school; hence the as-yet-unprophetic joke that I would die in a tragic auto accident at 24.

So now I'm 23? As far as celebrations go, I didn't do anything that different this year; there was drinking and movie-watching, just like last year, except this time I ended up watching the semi-decent Mr. and Mrs. Smith instead of the jerkin' Josie and the Pussycats complete with product-placement drinking game.

Do I feel wiser, or any more special? I feel older, certainly. Twenty-three is a strange age, if only because it's one I've never imagined myself being. I mean, what does a 23-year-old do? Am I supposed to be angsty, or self-assured? What should I accomplish this year? Where do I need to be by the time I turn 24?

I've got no illusions that I'll blink and start "thinking like an adult," but is this the year when I finally learn how to fake it?

In any case, the occasion calls for ice cream.