"Does 22 feel any different than 21?"

Before I left Mississauga this morning, I told Jo that at least one person in my family would ask me that. I get the same question, variation on a theme, every year.

The family's like Old Faithful. First my grandpa asked. Then my grandma asked. Then my dad asked. Then my head exploded, so I didn't really get to enjoy very much of 22. The answer to your oft repeated question, pater familias and company, is no, 22 doesn't feel much different than 21. Is this a surprise? The last time I checked, by definition, you'd all had many more birthdays than I.

And, sadly, 22 doesn't open any legal doors for me. 18? You can vote and gamble. 19? You can drink. 20? Well, you can still drink and vote and gamble (all in the same day if you're lucky). 21? You can drink in the States. 22? There are no new morally questionable activities that are available to me now. Unless...You don't think they let twenty-two-year-olds knee people in the groin do you? Not even once a week?

Dang.

The only thing that genuinely feels different is my head. I think it's swollen to twice it's natural size. Not due to the alarming number of compliments I receive on a daily basis, alas. I'm afraid it has something to do with this mystery illness I've been fighting since I moved. Things have escalated, my body and the illness have both taken up arms. Goody. I've heard that prospective employers tend to hire people that are sneezing and hacking up a lung and moaning "It's too late for me, save yourself!" right?

Don't worry, I've got it covered. My financial horizon is already looking brighter.