Happy Birth-day to me! Happy Birthday to me! Happy ... birth... day ... dear ...

Baby, I've got the blues.

I've got the I'm not big, but I'm not teeny, I'm just kinda in-betweeny -blues.

Which basically means I'm almost 20: too young for bars, but too old to be still doing (or seen doing) normal freshmen things.

Note: Some common, normal, freshmen things: Being unable to resist Canyon pizza and thus gaining the evil freshmen 15, showering/blow drying every day, wearing heels more often than not, traveling in giggling packs of hyenas, spending my entire savings account in three months.

No offense, kiddies. We've all been there.

My birthday is at the end of the month, and I'm finally going to be graduated from teendom. I'll be a whole year older, but still caught in the limbo between legally drinking ... and being barely legal. And graduating to an age that's almost as pointless as 19.

In 10 days, I'll be 20, another step further from the excitement of being legal, buying cigarettes, lottery tickets and porn, and onto waiting for the time I can actually buy my own alcohol.

As sophomores, we are caught in the void. We're 19 and 20: the lost ages, the between ages where you don't have all the rights, just all the responsibilities.

I hiked down from my apartment to frat row last week for one of the first times since being a freshie. As I watched the group of girls in front of me cluster together in all their freshmen glory, double-fisting Natty lights and spilling beer all over each other, I wondered: Am I too old for this?

I held my own luke-warm, half-empty beer in my hand, sidled up against the room's chipped walls and watched the scene unfold in front of me. Freshman year we had excuses. Our tendency to overdo everything -- make-up, drinking, food -- was semi-acceptable. After all, we were only freshmen.

But last week, as I stood clustered with my own friends in the corner, I realized something: This sucks. And I had no excuse to act the way I acted last year. So I just felt stupid.

I stood there in my polo shirt -- popped collar, cause you know I was at a frat -- and realized that I could never beat out that little tan girl standing next to me for a beer. She looked like she had gone tanning, and she had sparkles on. I was beat.

And I sat there, wishing there was some kind of amendment to the whole drinking at 21 rule.

When you think about it, everyone has his or her little niche. Freshmen are the young ones, the immature ones, the innocent, cute, little ones.

Juniors are the 21-year olds, the bar-hoppers, the lucky ones. Seniors are the older, more experienced, respected and practically adultified ones.

We sophomores have no claim to fame. But maybe it's all in my head. I doubt anybody knew how old I was, or even cared. But the mindset is still different. It felt different last year. Somehow, it was wrong. This year, I think, we're all ready for bigger, better things. Like ... bars.

But unfortunately we have an awesome rule that says we can't drink until we are of age. So, until we turn an age that means something in America, I guess we all should just get fake IDs. Or move to Canada.

Or just wait out our own awkwardness until we reach the age where we can really break out the song and dance.