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Shakespeare asked, “What’s in a name?” I ask, “What’s in a number?”
Particularly, I want to know what chronological age is magical, that which allows you to do something on your birthday that you could not do the day before. If you are 17 you may not vote, you may not buy a long gun, or you may not join the military without permission. But at age 18, in one magical moment, from 11:59 p.m. local time to 12:00 a.m., you have gained the wisdom and the right to do all these things.
While progressives howl at the prospect of an immature young man buying an AR-15, they also tell us that five-year-olds may reject their genitals, that 13-year-olds should be encouraged to use theirs (and the genitals of others) and hide their subsequent abortions from their parents. Oh, and please acknowledge that college-age kids are incapable of acquiring health insurance and should be allowed to sponge off their working moms and dads AND that they were too stupid to understand the terms of their student loans so those must be forgiven.
And yet, while we’re humping and killing and shooting and recklessly spending a fortune on useless university degrees, we have somehow also convinced ourselves that we’re all too young to get married before our mid-thirties.
That tells me we don’t have a numbers problem. We have a maturity problem. And I don’t know how to cure that. As a society, we’re granting feel-good rights too early and postponing real adulthood until it’s almost too late to put it to good use. And for that, we probably deserve all the misery that’s coming our way.Published in