Thirteen Hours

I turned sixteen today. Sixteen years ago, my mother went into labour while watching the Oscars, and I was born in the early hours of Monday the 22nd. I was three months premature, and I'm positively thrilled I'm not retarded because of it. I honestly could've been very ill, but I was perfectly healthy (aside from being less than two kilos). I'm very intelligent, even by standards of people carried to full term. I'm one of the youngest babies born in Ontario who survived with no long term effects. I don't even have a stutter.
I'm sixteen. And honestly, I don't feel THAT much different. I am a day older in real life. I am only a year older by some standards. In reality, I've aged thirteen hours since I was fifteen. But that seems like I'm a full year older.
How strange is that? That I'm meant to be a year older, a year's worth more mature, a year's worth of growing. But the time that has passed has only been thirteen hours or more. Isn't that strange, how we mark time to be so insignificant but hugely a milestone at the same time?
It's my birthday. So far, twenty-one people have written nice things on my Facebook wall. More people have greeted me in real life. My theatre class said nice things to me. I get hugs from everyone.
Just for aging thirteen hours.