I think I’m getting old. The signs are all there.
I have several gray hairs. When I stand up after sitting for an extended period of time, I feel stiff. I can’t stay up as late as I used to (I’m completely useless after an all-nighter), I can’t sleep in as late as I used to (only until about 11 a.m.), I find myself always in need of a cardigan and I think my hearing is on the outs as well.
And those are just the external indicators. Internally, I feel the rapid aging, too.
I don’t enjoy any of the music on the radio but rather find myself listening to NPR. And all of the shows on Disney Channel are completely foreign to me, but I still know they’re subpar to what we grew up with. And now, I really appreciate a good pair of socks.
I think my memory’s fading: I instantly forget people’s names, I constantly misplace my glasses and I’m starting to forget what happened in Season 2 of Breaking Bad. But I can’t quite remember if I’ve just always been this forgetful.
The most depressing thing, however, isn’t that I’ve started worrying about my credit score, but that some things that used to be incredibly exciting to me just aren’t anymore. This might be the true sign of aging.
Remember Christmas Eve when you were five? Sleep was just impossible because you thought you were going to die from the excitement. But then you find out Santa Claus isn’t real, and some of the magic disappears – the anticipation was still great, just less so.
But the years go by and your Christmas list gets shorter and shorter, and Christmas is still a great time of year, but you have no trouble going to sleep on Christmas Eve.
In a little over a week, I’ll turn 22-years-old, and this year, it’s especially obvious to me how old I’ve gotten. The past few years, my excitement for my birthday has waned, but this year it’s at an all-time low.
I think I’d be perfectly happy just receiving a good pair of socks.