February 25, 2015

I've been busy this week exploring the different levels of "tired". That word seems pretty straightforward, but it isn't.

There's the tiredness that means you sink happily into your cozy chair at the end of a good day's work, and feel the softness cradle your weary bones. There's the tiredness that means that you crawl into bed early, just ahead of the final insistent wave of sleep. There's the tiredness that means you need to push away everything and everyone for an hour or two, and lose yourself in a book or a movie or something that gives your mind rest from the thousand pressing questions of the day.

And then there's the tiredness that means you wander aimlessly into the middle of the kitchen, see the hamper overflowing with clothes and the sink overflowing with dishes, flap your hands frantically in the air, and start to cry.

Yeah.

It's difficult to see the changes that mean I'm getting older. The little sag in my cheeks and chin, the ugly belly fat that seems more and more ineradicable, the ever more persistent crick in my neck. And most noticeably, the waning ability to stay up until 2AM and still function normally the next day.

I'm moving quickly toward 30 ... past my physical prime, into the years of tiredness and aches and pains. I'm really struggling with this. Some women's beauty just gets fuller, riper, and more mature as they approach 30. But I can see my skin getting paler and duller, my eyes getting wrinkled and sad, and my shape getting lumpier and doughier. Especially when I keep trying to start movies at midnight like a college student.

I haven't done enough to be approaching this age. I haven't borne any children, finished any worthwhile work, or completed any significant projects. My life is slipping away and I have nothing to show for it.