It was just last week that I lamented the fact I was making the transition. You know, that fateful move from 21 — yes, that Jagermeister-drenched legal milestone — to “other.” Er, older. I mean, well, you know what I mean.

Rewind a year back to my 21st birthday. Even though I had some grand notion buried in the back of my head that I would be having some huge party with gorgeous floozies and free-flowing whiskey sours, I actually ity I spent it charging a 12-pack of Corona with my roommate, Richard. It was that night that I managed to convince myself I didn’t necessarily need to celebrate my birthday with a party in order to have an awesome time.

So I couldn’t explain why, all of a sudden, I started to feel a little apprehensive about — don’t laugh now — turning 22. Maybe it was because it reminded me that I was a senior non-premed biology major with no post-college plans. Or maybe it was because I didn’t have any actual reason to celebrate; at least on my 21st birthday I could fantasize, but this time I couldn’t even do that.

But that all changed when I finally sat down to think about the situation. Twenty-one is definitely the famed birthday of lore, when all it takes is the second hand to click midnight, and suddenly you’re mature enough to drink a handle of Captain Morgan. Twenty-two, however, is nothing. It has no associated alcoholic coming-of-age factors, and thus, by social definition, should suck. Even me, the guy who said he didn’t need a party, was kind of depressed about the situation.

So I decided to change my ways after the clouds in my brain parted to reveal a golden revelation: There are two twos in 22. I wasn’t going to have another opportunity like this for 11 more years, and damn it, I wasn’t going to let this go without a fight.

After hastily creating the event on Facebook.com, I was pleasantly surprised to see almost 70 confirmed guests within two days. At the party, we danced, we drank (and drank), we were loud and some of us even jumped into the pool half-naked. Even though the keg ran out kind of early (please don’t give me a negative review Koala people, because I know you were there and sorry, but I’m not rich and the early bird gets the booze), I had the hands-down best birthday of my life.

And why stop at 22? All you 23-year-old sixth years should join in the fun as well. After all, the next time you’ll self-identify as a prime number won’t be for another six years. So seize your chance — now.

I guess in the grand scheme of things, my point is that if your 21st birthday wasn’t some huge bash, get over it and make each subsequent birthday the shit in its own right. Besides, we all drank before we were 21, so it’s not even that big of a deal to anyone, save the cops and maybe your mom. Twenty-two is the new 21, and 23 is the new 22.

So party on.