I actually found myself going all Danny Glover the other night. It was around 11:30 p.m., and I had put in about 12 hours of work, all told. I was done for.
“I’m too old for this shit,” I told my younger co-workers as I
sauntered hobbled out of the newsroom.
Which is such a 180 from the old me (or rather, the young me).
I used to be the up-with-the-rooster kind of gal. In college, I never lamented 8 a.m. classes like my fellow students.
I could go and go on 6, 5, hell, 4 hours of sleep and still manage.
I aced the GRE after pulling an all-nighter to put our college newspaper to bed.
Now, you can’t pay me enough to get up before 7 a.m. I’m usually still half-asleep by the time Nick leaves for work.
I long for naps. Four, 5, hell, 6 hour naps.
Nick and I eat around 5:30. We are ready for bed by 10. I fall soundly asleep soon after that.
I can feel myself losing juice around 3 or so — my reaction time is slowed, my mental quickness isn’t there, I just feel worn out from my brain to my pinky toes.
Maybe this is what getting older is like. Or maybe it’s getting older with MS.
Whatever the reason, I plan to have a pillow on hand at all times, just in case.
And will someone please put a sock in that rooster?