I didn’t feel bad that in eight years I will be at the dreaded 30 years old mark, and I certainly didn’t feel bad about my previous 21 years.

No, life left with me with a different sort of feeling. I guess you could call it disappointment.

Our society marks birthdays with celebratory rewards, and it all starts when we’re 10. Those big double digits tell society we’re beginning to get a little mature, and it’s no longer OK to get a cheek pinch from great-aunt Martha. After all, we’re no longer little kids.

Milestones come quickly after that: There’s 13, where maturity has a whole new meaning and we no longer can sit at the kids’ table during Thanksgiving dinner. At 14 we plead to take driver’s training. At 16 we obtain a driver’s license, which frees us from the grasp of our parents. When we’re 17, we’re permitted to see R-rated movies without the accompaniment of an adult. At 18, we finally can smoke cigarettes legally, buy lottery tickets and, if our hearts desire, a Playboy or anything else of the sort.

Then the college years kick in and birthdays take on a whole different meaning. It means booze. When we turn 19, we can go to Canada and legally hop from bar to bar, taking shots and playing blackjack.

When we reach 20 years of age, we graduate from the awkwardness of being a teen and venture into a world in which we’re so close to being of legal drinking age.

As we turn 21, the climax arrives and all the years of worrying about a minor in possession charge or getting caught by our parents are over. The desire to try to find a fake ID subsides.

Then, at 22, I woke up. There was no special celebration, no milestone reached. It was the first birthday I didn’t have anything to look forward to in terms of society’s rewards to me.

I was sad because I realized time isn’t going to stop at 21, where I spent most of my time in a drunken coma anticipating the next tailgate or finding any excuse to wear a pair of high heels.

The day after my birthday, all I could keep thinking about was the fact that my life is happening whether or not I realize it. The world doesn’t stop for every birthday I have, and it doesn’t pause to make sure I made it through the year OK. If anything, it goes by a little faster.

Society guarantees pointless prizes for a greater portion of a person’s young life, only to deprive similar gifts the older he or she gets. Society celebrates youth, and as time goes on we find ourselves clinging to the “good ol’ days.”

There is no more incentive to pass another year. If anything, growing older changes this youthful mentality and instead replaces it with disappointment. People get real jobs and see their families less. It’s inevitable because it’s life.

But why can’t society be a little more forgiving to those who’ve passed these hurdles, and give us something to look forward to other than a 401K and a good pension plan?

The only real birthday milestone people hit after their 20s is turning 40, when you become “over-the-hill.” That’s sad to me because it’s like a work week’s hump day, only half left to go. Think about it: People normally die at about 80, so really it’s a celebration of making it halfway through life, and knowing you’ll only have that much more time until you kick the bucket.

But I guess in reality, life isn’t about the rewards of growing older — because they’re few and not as momentous in hindsight. It’s about realizing life is happening, regardless of if we’re rewarded for it or not.

So, onward I march into my 23rd year, a little older with a little better understanding of what being 20 is all about. A little disappointed, but ready for a world based on making my own rewards and reaching my own goals.

And if that doesn’t work out, I can rest easy knowing at 25, I can rent a car.

Anne O’Dell is a State News staff writer. Reach her at odellann@msu.edu.