Well, it has officially happened. I’m starting to feel old.
This is actually new territory for me. I’m now 41 years old. I suppose I could lie about that, but if you read this column, you know I make a fairly big deal about my birthdays, so the truth is already out there. Besides, I’ve always felt pretty spry regardless of the number.
This past year, though… things are getting a little creaky.
So here’s a brief rundown of how I’m apparently starting to act my age.
First, I have fully embraced the joy of the shoehorn. At my parents’ house, shoehorns are practically part of the decor. My mom is always on the lookout for a new one, and there are actual discussions about ideal length and design. In the past, this prompted a lot of eye rolling from me. “What a bunch of old fogies who can’t even put on their shoes,” I would think, in my youthful ignorance.
Then one day, dear reader, I tried one. What a revelation. No more smashing my fingers while forcing my foot into already-tied shoes. No more hopping around, tugging and muttering under my breath. You barely even have to bend over. It’s magical.
I now own a shoehorn. I use it daily. I haven’t quite reached my dad’s level of carrying it around for back scratching purposes, but give me time.
Next: stairs.
Now, I won’t say they’re the enemy… but they’re definitely on my watch list. Most days I can still take them two at a time like a functioning adult. But every now and then, I hit that first step and my knee is like, “Absolutely not. What are we doing here?”
And at night? When the kids wander downstairs for the 14th time and need something? I would rather do just about anything than climb those stairs again. (Zephie, I will give you an ice cream cone and a pony if you just go back upstairs yourself.)
Also new in my life: heartburn.
Back in my wild and woolly days, I could eat a pizza at 2 a.m. and sleep like a baby. Now, if I even think about eating something remotely spicy after 9 p.m., I’m up at 1 a.m. questioning all my life choices and wondering why my entire body feels like it’s on fire.
I’m also starting to understand the appeal of going to bed at a reasonable hour. This doesn’t happen every night, but more often than I’d like to admit, I find myself at 9 p.m. debating whether to start a show… or just crawl into bed and scroll the news like a sensible person.
There was a time when I would start movies at 11 p.m. with no hesitation. Of course, that was back when I was young and single and the only thing waking me up was a loud neighbor, not small humans who need water, a blanket, or to discuss life at 2 a.m.
All that said, I still like to think I’m young at heart. I’m not eating supper at 4 p.m. just yet, and I have not taken a spin on the motorized cart at Walmart.
But… let’s not rule anything out.
