Turning 21 was never a big deal for me.

In fact, I don't even remember how I celebrated.

(No, it wasn't that fun.)

It's surprising when you think about what a big deal everyone else makes about you hitting that milestone.

Sadly, I don't think it's nearly as momentous as everyone makes it out to be.

By the time you reach 21, you've been able to vote, see R-rated movies, get your driver's license, go to college, land a job, get hitched, join the military, rent a car, buy property and file your own taxes.

What other grown-up fulfillment do you need?

The only thing you can't do at this age is run for president — not your usual twentysomething pursuit anyway.

So, really, who cares about being 21?

Well, my newly turned 21-year-old sister does.

Not because she's always wanted a big, blowout party with catered food, a live band and designated drivers.

She's excited about the numerological achievement because I've made such an occasion out of it.

And partly for my own benefit.

Since I didn't have a memorable 21st birthday — or 30th, for that matter — I figured it's about time someone I know did.

So we're going to Las Vegas, where she can turn 21 doing the only two things she couldn't legally do last month: consume alcohol and gamble.

Birthdays become less important — and less something to celebrate — the older we get.

We don't plan Saturday parties at The Ice Palace or organize elaborately themed slumber parties anymore.

For most of us, we barely want anyone to acknowledge the additional year to our age. (Though we'll take the free cake and ice cream at the office, thanks!)

But then we hit those milestones: 30, 40, 50. In some cases, like my parents, you celebrate reaching 62 because now you can collect Social Security.

And you want to do it up big.

One of my girlfriends kicked off her 30th year with a lavish, invitation-only party at a Waikiki nightclub complete with valet parking, drink specials and a deejay spinning classic Madonna.

Another girlfriend is heading to Sin City in June with her other, turning-40 pals for one of those "Whatever happens in Vegas" weekends.

Two years ago, I imagined my 30th birthday to be something I'd either never forget — or vaguely remember.

It was neither.

I wound up at home with the stomach flu for a week.

So this year I'm living vicariously through my little sis, who still thinks 30 is a far-off destination that comes with mortgage payments, diaper duty and monthly hair-coloring appointments.

But I don't care.

After all, isn't 32 the new 21, anyway?

Reach Catherine E. Toth at ctoth@honoluluadvertiser.com. Read her daily blog at blogs.honoluluadvertiser.com.