Have you ever been so bone tired, that literally you feel at any second you could close your eyes and immediately fall asleep?  That’s me.  Most days.  I’m not sure if it’s a combination of working my tail off, eating poorly, and going to be late or if it’s something more, but man oh man. Exhausted doesn’t even cover it.  I know I’m not the only one. I know you feel it too.  Maybe everyday. Maybe once in a while. Getting old stinks, doesn’t it?  I often joke with my friends that I am perpetually stuck at 21 in my mind.  My senior year at college, playing volleyball . . . with no cares in the world. Every meal was made for me, my dishes were cleaned for me. I had classes to go to, but those were only a few hours a day. I had homework, but that part always seems to evade the memories. I was skinny. And fit.  And could wear anything I wanted. At 21, my body could take a beating.  I used to voluntarily throw myself onto the floor during volleyball practice to dig balls. And not even think twice about it!  It didn’t even hurt!  Now?  I bend over for a couple of hours during a newborn session and I’m toast for the rest of the day.  Thirty-three is a lot different than twenty-one.

Thirty three means white hairs.  It means the age where you can no longer eat anything that you want and not see the consequences.  It means things far beyond anything you could imagine at 21.  It means responsibility, a societal contributor, a parent (well, that’ll zap the energy away from you faster than you can say herewegoroundthemulberrybush).  Thirty three means you’ve seen life and what it can be, but there’s still so many unknowns.  You’ve seen things that make you realize that life is not always lemons.  That your whole world can turn upside-down in just a second.  Thirty three means that memories of my past are being washed away by memories of the present.  James sometimes mentions something from our past that I literally have no recollection of.  It’s sad. And scary.  But it’s reality.  That’s thirty three.  There is so much difference in twelve years.

Now. . . the question is. . . does it only get worse from here?  Or does it just keep getting better?

. . . and quite possibly more exhausting.