So I turned twenty a few weeks ago, and I have to say, these past few weeks have been quite an odd experience. Though it seems like I haven’t aged a bit, I have indeed crossed a line in the sand, and it has subsequently blown away.

I can no longer be classified as a teenager.

And this tiny, insignificant thing is actually quite horrific. You see, aging, even a single year, can have major consequences. Responsibilities, duties, maintaining an air of professionalism when short years ago you were content to lounge around in sweatpants and crop tops without a care in the world for your reputation or modest wardrobe choices.

But with age comes wisdom, apparently.

And you have to act accordingly. After all, with those duties can come certain perks.

You‘re afforded the opportunity to do things you’ve never done before.

Of course, some birthdays are more significant than others. Ten, for instance, is the first time you get to hit those elusive double digits. Thirteen is when you officially become a teenager and escape the dreaded “tween” phase, complete with Aeropostale polos and matching capris. Sixteen is the all-important driver’s license, parading around for what might be several months in an old beater that makes you feel like the king of the world if you happen to be a bit older than your friends. Then there’s eighteen when you become an adult and graduate high school, ready to step into a new phase of your life. And everyone looks forward to twenty-one when you can party and gallivant and do all that stuff that alcoholics and goalless day-drinkers like to do. And in the process, twenty is often overlooked.

But I think that it’s very special.

I can no longer consider myself a teenager, and I think that’s pretty weird. When I walk into a store, the section full of clothes for teenagers, though I thought nothing of them a month ago, they aren’t meant for me. Teenage literature, a fun way to pass the time, I’m no longer a member of the target audience, no siree bob. Teen Vogue, nope. It’s Real Vogue for me from here on out. And yet a few weeks before, I was who those goods were directed toward. They were designed with my peers and me in mind.

But no longer.

Funny, isn’t it?

I have to face the facts. I am twenty years old, and, as such, I must completely disavow my urges to do anything mildly jejune.

I have to act my age.

Or do I?

I understand that, yes, I am a professional. I will soon be employed and dressing in suits and changing the world and dealing with finances, rent, and a whole host of intimidating things in a very short amount of time.

But, I am also still me. And perhaps my age doesn’t need to define me.

So if I want to watch a kid's show, like Arthur or Cyberchase, why shouldn’t I? If I want to wear a hoodie because its impractical (and uncomfortable) to dress professionally 24/7, why shouldn’t I? And if is want to put my cute Pikachu keychain on my work bag and a Pacman keychain on my work key, well, I already did that.

So I’m not a teenager, but I am still me, and my age is just a number.

That might be written in bubble letters.