soopastryheart

I was either super diligent or extremely procrastinate with my studies in college. Regardless of which side of the spectrum I fell, both meant that I would spend a considerable amount of time buried in books and indecipherable notes, until mornings and nights meshed together to form one timeless ombré. I would consume an impressive amount of caffeine (and usually only caffeine) to support these day-to-night study benders, until my lower extremities began to involuntarily dance and I would lose the ability to distinguish whether my fingers were shaking or my eyes were twitching.

And though I knew that my study tactics were less than optimal, I had more all-nighters in college than I really should have. On one midterm stretch, I went two nights and three days without a full night’s rest and realized I was talking to myself out loud in the most public of places (coffee kiosk, restrooms, etc.). By that third day, I was no longer running on fumes, but rather, clutching that empty canister for dear life. I couldn’t remember conversations I had with friends. I’d regularly misplace items (cell phone in fridge, toothbrush in my pen holder, keys in a boot). I’d stare at something (or someone) for twenty minutes before realizing I was doing so. During those days, I wasn’t so much a human being as I was zombie, but the important note was that I made it through; it may have been on my hands on knees, clawing my way out, but I made it to the finish line.

I took those miserable days for granted, days when I could survive on spoonfuls of peanut butter and Red Bull to help me make it through the week, days when personal hygiene took a back seat, days when 48-hour days were the norm. Because these days, it’s an entirely different story.

For reasons that are unclear to me now, I pulled an all-nighter earlier last week. There was no pressing matter to attend, no deadlines to meet, no urgent project that needed finishing. I simply failed to fall asleep, and before I knew it, it was light out and I could see the growing number of commuters on the road. And instead of just going to bed then, I opted to remain awake, thinking that it would affect my sleep cycle the least.

In anticipation, I brewed myself a strong cup of breakfast tea, and tried to keep my brain in constant simulation. When my eyelids began to pucker and droop, I downed a second cup, determined to fight the wave of sleepiness that seemed to be drowning me. Quickly, I started to lose focus of the words I was reading on my computer, until I was convinced what I was looking at was no longer English. I developed a prickling headache around my temples, punishment for not allowing my eyes to close when my body was instructing it to do so. Around 10am, I decided I could no longer fight the good (albeit, pointless) fight, crawled into bed, and didn’t wake until 4 in the afternoon.

I most definitely don’t remember those side effects from sleep depravation just mere years ago.

I don’t really miss those days, when cereal was the meal of choice and sleep was a forfeited luxury, but I do miss how quickly I was able to bounce back when I tortured myself so.

The weight of it all – the weight of growing older no longer feels like a gradual process. Instead, it feels as if one morning, your body finally decided to stand up for itself, telling you to screw off, and that it would no longer tolerate any more abuse. It happened sometime between ages 23-27, and shows no signs of reversal or deceleration.

And it’s not just going to bed at a reasonable hour that’s a sign of aging. So many activities and tasks that seemed second nature before seems like a challenge now. In college, we’d be drinking Thursday nights only to show up to lecture Friday morning still drunk. Now, we’re lucky if we’re not hungover after a particularly rambunctious happy hour (or a beer, if you’re me). I’ve noticed that the dark circles under my eyes are far more reoccurring, that I’ve bought more Tums in this past year than I have all my life, that “powering through” the flu seems like a much heavier defiance than it was once before. I understand the importance of exercise, not just so I can be presentable in a bathing suit, but, well, simply because I don’t want to die just yet.

It’s quite the wake up call, these physical ailments now introducing themselves after having been dormant for so long. It’s your body’s way of breaking the news to you that you aren’t as infallible or invincible as you once thought. I’m not yet concerned of slipping in the shower and busting a hip, osteoporosis, or saggy tits (you gotta have them first). But I am growing more aware of my family’s history of high cholesterol, SPF levels in my daily moisturizer, and recognizing warning signs of spicy foods.

So go and add an extra mile to your morning run! Toss those microwavable corndogs and buy more ground turkey! Drink more water! Enroll in barre! Bikram yoga! Spin! Zumba! Stock up on fish oils and cranberry supplements and add them to your daily repertoire!

Or else.