While the feeling comes and goes, I’m beginning to believe that I’m getting old. The tide of aging rolled back in this morning while simultaneously brushing my teeth, nursing a mild (but present) hangover, and counting the grays in the overgrown mop of brownish-red hair on my characaturishly large head.
In my teens and 20s, I could put myself through the meatgrinder of an all-night drinking session and bounce back the next day. Sure, there would be a hangover, but I could be productively hungover. My resilience began to fade in my early 30s, and has seemingly disappeared. Last evening’s pregame to the next-door neighbor’s 40th birthday event set the stage for my irresponsibility. It continued through the specter of beer tubes at Dave & Buster’s, and a nightcap/friendly visit to a former student tending bar at The Cheesecake Factory. I slept like a champion, but Sunday has me functioning a little slower than normal.
So, here I am, watching The Wizard of Oz with The Kid. The grocery run was slightly painful, as sharp smells from the various sampling stations at Trader Joe’s and Wegmans further soured an already tender stomach.
Realizing that you are merely a mortal and long past your glory days are tough pills to swallow. Damning the gray hairs and achy back gets me nowhere. So, here I type, complaining about my lost youth.
I suppose it could be worse. I could be my next-door neighbor. He’s 40.