I was asleep when it happened. It was something I knew was going to occur — at least I hoped it would. Yet it received so little fanfare that even I had to remind myself of what I was supposed to be excited about. When I woke, I was pleased to realize that my expectation had been fulfilled.

I had turned 22.

In previous years, I would have been so caught up in my own excitement that I would have had trouble sleeping. This year, I had trouble staying awake.

That’s because turning 22 does not carry any real significance. Almost all age-related milestones occur earlier in life. You can drive at 16, vote at 18 and drink (legally) at 21. But after that? Barren wasteland.

I could count down the days until retirement, but that largely depends on the job I have yet to attain. Some people have told me that life’s final birthday perk is turning 25, when a person can legally rent a car. Anyone who considers that a perk has probably never ventured into the left lane.

Turning 50 usually causes a stir, but most of its attention is as much cynical as it is congratulatory. Reaching 100 is even more monumental, if you have any friends left to celebrate with. Of course, my diet in college ensures I will never have to worry about that.

So, as you can see, often the only feeling of accomplishment with getting older is simply knowing you survived. It seems that excitement with birthdays decreases each year. My sister has devised a sensible theory that explains this. Besides usurping most worthwhile liberties by the age of 21, she thinks a person’s lack of interest in blowing out candles can be rationalized mathematically.

When children celebrate their second birthdays, they essentially double in age. The second birthday represents half of a child’s life. Turning 3 equals one-third — not as significant, but still considerable. But by the time the 22nd birthday rolls around, that person is celebrating less than 5 percent of life.

Fast-forward a few decades and even remembering the date of your birthday can be difficult. At some point along that journey, survivors, despite their strongest efforts, must confront a chilling truth: They become “old.” There are different lines of thought behind what “old” actually means. I believe being old is not defined by a concrete age but rather it a state of mind. Of course, that is only true until someone turns 40, when, indeed, they are old.

That should not be viewed as a negative term, however. Though I am no longer overflowing with excitement about birthdays, I am grateful that I have made it this far. And I hope there will be many more to come. As my dad so often says, “There is only one alternative to getting older.”