Sometime between graduating college and today, I got old. I used to be spry, able to sweat through any workout. Once upon a time, I could mix my liquor—hello, Irish carbombs, tequila, and vodka!—and still wake up in time for work the next morning. In my young days, I would trek across boroughs to for a fun Friday night event, I used to clumsily run into doors and other objects and walk away without nary a scratch, and I could eat whatever the hell my heart desired.

I have sort of been keeping an eye out for myself lately, noticing this change. As much as I might want to ignore it, it is officially un-ignorable. I am old.

Today, while lugging my bike up the stairs in my apartment, I knocked my upper shin against the pedal. If I had done this when I was young, my body would have been like, “Oh? Whatever.” But today my body was like, “HOLY HELL WHAT IN GOD’S NAME ARE YOU DOING TO YOURSELF, WOMAN?!” Later, as I was napping (yes, napping—the old people’s time to recharge) all I could feel was this throbbing in my leg. And later, while biking to dance class, I felt as if I had fallen on it from a 3-storey drop. It was a love tap, my friends, a mere love tap, but my body is reacting like a complete wuss. But this isn’t the only change.

First of all, I’m much less athletic than I used to be. Goodbye flexibility and strength, hello dough-y muscles and difficulty tying shoes (okay, I am being a little dramatic—I can still tie my shoes with no problem). Yoga used to be a zen time for me to relax and stretch, now it’s confusion as to how to make myself a pretzel. I get winded after biking up one tiny hill, and if I’m sore, I feel it for days.

Second, I am now a total lightweight when it comes to drinking. Which, according to my wallet, is great. But I think of what I used to drink in one night, and I don’t even know how I did it. The thought of chugging beer and Jameson makes me gag a little, and shots don’t appeal to me the way they used to (Hmm, a drink that lasts me 30 minutes vs. a drink that last me .3 seconds? I might be old, but I’m not stupid). Actually, I must brag and say a few weekends ago I did 2 shots of tequila and managed to keep it together. But I paid for it greatly the next morning. You know who can’t handle lots of liquor and have epic hangovers? Old people.

Third, and possibly one of the most noticeable changes, I don’t like leaving my neighborhood to party or hang out or do anything, really. If it’s not within walking distance, ugh, it’s just too far to be important. Cool party? Awesome! In the East Bay, so I have to take the bus and then BART? Oh, that sucks, I’m actually busy that night. Art opening? I’m there! Oh, it’s down by 24th Street in the Mission? I don’t feel so well tonight, but have fun! Knitting party in the Haight? Oooh, I’ll bring the yarn!

I used to put on 4 inch heels—yes, really—and take public transit 45 minutes into the heart of the city. Now, you’re lucky if I put on my fancy boots and jeans and walk a few blocks to that dive bar around the corner that serves free pretzels. And no, this is totally nothing related to neighborhood pride. I do love the Haight, but I don’t wish to remain here because I think it is superior. I wish to remain here because I am too lazy to go anywhere.

Last but not least, Elvis has left the building—and by Elvis I mean metabolism and by building I mean my body. I used to eat crap and looked pretty decent without even having to workout much. Now, I eat all organic and make sure to eat plenty of fresh fruits and veggies, and I’m teetering on the edge of morbid obesity (okay, being dramatic again, but youknowwhatimeanyea?). It’s like I can’t lose those extra 10 pounds, no matter how hard I try. But when I was young, all I had to do was eat one less Kit Kat, and I dropped 3 sizes.

So to all you young people—beware, bewaaaaaare. And to all you old people, I am sad and happy to be joining you.

Things my frightened mind imagined he was doing:

• wandering Haight Street and being adopted by a runaway teen
• dying after falling out of a window that had been left open
• dying after drinking bleach from underneath the sink
• hitch hiking to LA
• taking the N Judah to the beach and checking out the coffee shop I always rave about
• dying after getting hit by the N Judah
• hanging out in the fridge
• being dried to death in the dryer downstairs
• dying in the back of my closet because he sensed it was his time and wanted to be alone
• hanging out in the plants out front

Things it turns out he was doing:

• being locked in my roommate’s room
• sitting on her bed
• sniffing her stuff
• staring out the window at birds
• sleeping
• two-stepping a pillow to lay on
• sleeping
• chasing a string
• licking his crotch
• pawing at the door to be released