BUCKING THE SYSTEM: GOOD PRESENTS COME TO THOSE WHO KNOW WHERE TO LOOK

I have always enjoyed celebrating my birthday. When I was younger, the celebrations were usually a family dinner and a new outfit from my parents, but as I grew closer to adulthood I began to hold parties.

My parties never required presents -- the party itself was enough. I find great satisfaction simply in being around loved ones on my special day, which has worked out well since my birthday always falls just prior to my husband's pay day.

When I turned sweet 16, I had a party with my sister-girlfriend Felecia, who turned 14 just two days later. It was a major shindig so funky we had to wash down the walls of Felecia's parents' house with bleach water afterwards.

And then there was my 18th birthday, which I celebrated with some of my closest friends at a country party. A country party is, for all you big-city dwellers, what happens when a bunch of kids from the suburban Charleston area pile in an old car, drive outside city limits (preferably to a levee), light a bon fire, pop the trunk of the car and turn up the music. You might get a little dirty from all the sand and dust at a country party, but with the total costs going toward the gas burned to get there and back, it was (and probably still is), the cheapest way for teens to party in Charleston.

It helped that I was driving a 1982 Chrysler New Yorker at the time that seated six teen-agers comfortably, but we could fit a dozen people of varying sizes in a pinch. My parties always were well-attended, and I usually made a nice profit by charging 50 cents per passenger.

For my 21st birthday, I celebrated the way you would expect a stupid college student who believes she knows everything to celebrate that milestone with a drunken revelry. I was, at least, smart enough to have that party in the home of a friend who didn't mind two dozen people sleeping on furniture, floors and anywhere else they could lay swelled heads.

Thank God 21 only comes once in a lifetime.

That was the last time I really celebrated a birthday. In recent years, my birthday has consisted mainly of me paying particularly close attention to my hair, clothes and makeup, then going home and watching a little television before falling into bed.

It was just another day, except I turned a year older.

But I was determined this year would be special. You see, I turned 30 on Tuesday, and I finally feel like I've reached adulthood. Things seem to be coming together professionally and personally, and I saw no reason to pull the bedcovers over my head and feel depressed because I entered my third decade of life.

And so, I celebrated my birthday by cleaning my house, then going to lunch with my sister and getting my nails done. I then went to work a night shift, which meant there was no interaction with my family outside of sticky "Happy Birthday" songs and kisses in the morning, and priceless crayon drawings created at preschool by Jerry as my present.

But don't cry for me, because I did have a party later in the week, complete with cake, music and good friends. It wasn't the funky sweaty shindig or the dusty levee parties of my youth.

Rather, I celebrated with good friends and family in the basement of my home while a baby sitter tended to everyone's children upstairs in the attic area. It was a grown-up party for Tamara, who finally feels like a grown-up, and the best party I've ever had.

And just think, I wrote this column before the party even got under way.