I always look forward to starting the spring semester. Long lines at the bookstore, reintroducing my body to dining hall food and most importantly, my birthday. Lucky for me, my birthday always falls on the first weekend after the first week of classes. The weekend notorious for containing some of the best parties, including the infamous Hagerfest. This year was no different except for one minor detail, I was turning 21.

Turning 21 on Sunday, no buying alcohol on Sunday in Indiana – what's a girl to do? I took it as a hint that God didn't want me getting totally wasted. So, I opted to keep the partying to a minimum on the Sabbath. This was the plan until someone mentioned that I would legally be able to enter the bar at midnight on Saturday. At that momment, the plans changed.

First to the movies, and then to Coach's. Who da thunk that the Arizona driver's license is easily faked, certainly not me. I removed it from the plastic wallet casing and displayed it proudly to the police officer who wished me happy birthday while I ran by him to join the friends that had accumulated previously to welcome me. These friends, who I later found out, were there to perhaps catch a glimpse of an intoxicated Kelly Hager.

Electric Lemonade, Sex on the Beach – the chick drinks and I got along well. I pranced around in my borrowed gogo boots, glitter top and princess crown. I danced with my friends and beat them all in pool. I even managed to gain the affections of a group of townies from a distance, and at the same time was very thankful for my male friend's sheer brut appearances. Last call came, and I enjoyed a Corona. I remember the lemon, I remember kissing each of my friends goodbye and thanking them for coming.

I enjoyed coherent conversation with my friend who walked me to the dorm door in true gentleman form. I remember walking into my dormroom and reaching for the phone to call my dad. "Dad, it's 4 a.m., I'm home." I remember hearing the relief in his voice as he told me he loved me.

I grabbed the remote to turn the TV on as I hopped into my bed. I closed my eyes, and drifted while remembered the activity of the evening. But, in the midst of the memory, I had to goto the bathroom. I sat up, and it happened: The ground started to spin. I closed my eyes and prayed it away. I reopened my eyes, it was still there. So, I did what any logical first time semi intoxicated person did – I got nervous. What was this feeling, and more importantly, was I going to puke? Not to mention, I still had to brave the journey to the bathroom. But that didn't matter anymore. Someone once told me that counting sobers one up quickly, and I began to sing the alphabet. After the first couple letters, I was out cold.

From 5 a.m. to 10 a.m., I slept soundly – minus the four times I got up to use the restroom. Sunday morning came, I had survived the first 10 hours of being 21.

Evening came and following tradition, my friends and I went to Fridays. While I was busy peeking at the drink menu with intent to buy, the waiter came and took our orders. My friends chanted my order in unison, "blackened cajun chicken sandwich with a side of avocado." We had been there together so much my habits had been recognized. After the balloons and dinner, I got the sundae slammed in my face. My friends took embarassing pictures. Somethings will never change.

Some people would say that I didn't have a good 21rst bday because I didn't stagger back to my room drunk as a skunk. I disagree. From getting scoped out by a townie to squirting Corona all over myself, I had a great birthday, and I can honestly say I remember every bit of it. More importantly, I learned my limit.

This week, recooperation.

Next week, Heartland.

Next year, Blackened Cajun Chicken with a side order of advocado.

The tradition continues.

• Fake no more