I rarely defer to Britney Spears for life advice. After a quickie Vegas wedding and a scandalous career in parenting, the pop princess’s credibility is shoddy at best. Alas, she said it all when she declared: “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman.”

Faithful reader, this is my last column, the grand finale, the part where I bash my verbal guitar into smoking speakers. I am pulling out all the stops: In a mere 500 words, I want to tackle the ever-elusive journey into adulthood.

I hate to wax philosophical, but I can’t get my mind off the idea of maturity. Last week I attended a “‘faux mitzvah.” The party was a wonderful opportunity to visit a bygone era of glow sticks and body glitter.

Needless to say, I channeled that irritating relative who lingers long after the festivities have ceased. In my defense, yelling, “Aunt Sally, you are needed for the candle lighting ceremony” into a microphone never gets old. And I do loves me my KC and Jojo.

After the hosts pried the microphone out of my hands (fittingly during NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye”), I began to think about adulthood. June is almost upon us. Members of the Northwestern community are about to advance to the next grade level or finally graduate. Many see college graduation as the threshold into adulthood, but others disagree. Our society has many rites of passage: obtaining a drivers’ license, graduating from high school, enjoying your first legal drink . When are you officially “all grown up”?

Perhaps you become an adult when your childhood shows appear on “Nick at Nite.” The other night I was chillin’ out max and relaxin’ all cool when “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” came on the oldies but goodies cable network.

I remember when “Nick at Nite” was the home of vintage sitcoms like “Bewitched” and “I Dream of Jeannie.” Now their lineup is a virtual laundry list of shows that our generation grew up watching – “Full House” and “The Cosby Show” included. Things have come full circle and a new generation of couch potatoes are watching our “classic” programs.

But maybe the journey to maturity lies not in the boob tube but on the brace faces around us. This quarter I received several requests to write a column about orthodontia in a collegiate environment. Of course, I refused. (A whole piece about those teeny rubber bands?!) Still, the requests for this topic spoke to the unique situation of undergrads: We’re part of an ostensibly adult community, yet we’re still haunted by the remnants of adolescence. It muth be very thrange to write your thenior thethith with a rethaner thuck in your mouth as you thype.

I apologize for the second Britney quote, but hey, “it’s my prerogative.” This from a woman who dropped her baby on his head. Regardless, the refrain of her Bobby Brown cover speaks to the individual nature of the murky transition to maturity. I might be a senior next fall, but I still (clearly) worship bubble gum pop idols.

Amanda FitzSimons is a Weinberg junior. She can be reached at [email protected].