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Today, I turned eighteen. This is not really a big deal.

Legally, it is of little consequence in Canada. You can drive at sixteen — something I have not been particularly eager to do. You can drink and smoke at nineteen — but it’s not as though anyone really cares, and those aren’t exactly my idea of fun either. In the past, you could have sex at fourteen, although the law has become somewhat more complicated in recent years. Of course, eighteen is the age at which you get to vote, but the general election was last week, and there is not likely to be another for another four years.

But so far I haven’t really talked about myself. The significance of the age of eighteen is not primarily procedural, but symbolic and cultural. In North America, eighteen has, traditionally, been the typical age at or around which young people graduate from high school and move out of their parents’ homes. It therefore symbolized a transition from childhood to early adulthood. But not really. I got kicked out of my house around this time last year, and graduated from high school shortly afterward.

Nothing special happens when you turn eighteen. You don’t magically become responsible, mature, self-sufficient, or capable of sound judgement.

So why the post today? Because, despite all that I have written above, a significant change in my life is in the works. If I could, I would tell you more about it today. It is, after all, a date marked off on the calendar, my eighteenth birthday, so it would strengthen the association. However, the phrasing of the next post, or few posts, will depend on the decisions on two more applications for transfer admission that I have submitted, which I expect to receive shortly. Until then, stay tuned. (I promise that the writing will not be as crappy as it is in this post.)

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