The Weirdest Part of Getting Older Isn't the Gray Hair

I used to think the circle of life was something profound, like a grand idea about purpose, legacy, and the human experience. Turns out it’s mostly living long enough to become the people you spent your childhood making fun of.

As a kid, I fought naps like they violated my constitutional rights. Sleep was for babies. Adventure was out there. There were bikes to ride, neighborhoods to explore, and absolutely no reason a perfectly healthy eight-year-old should be forced unconscious at two in the afternoon. Today, if someone told me I had an unexpected forty-five minutes to nap, I’d cancel plans I didn’t even have. I’d dim the lights, silence my phone, and protect that forty-five minutes like it was federally mandated medical leave.

I also remember laughing at adults who got excited about things like comfortable shoes, a new vacuum, good parking, or arriving at the airport three hours early. These people had clearly surrendered. Then last week I spent five full minutes explaining to someone why Costco’s socks are “actually a fantastic value.” Not only did I have opinions, but I had examples. I was one spreadsheet away from becoming a regional sales rep.

When we’re young, we think adults become boring. What actually happens is that they become more interesting as they get efficient. Apparently, there’s even science behind this betrayal. Psychologist Laura Carstensen’s research on socioemotional selectivity suggests that as we become more aware that time is finite, our priorities shift. Novelty becomes a little less important. Meaningful relationships, emotional satisfaction, and experiences that actually matter to us move higher on the list, which sounds incredibly profound until you realize “emotional satisfaction” sometimes means someone texts, “Hey, can we reschedule dinner?” and you experience a level of joy normally associated with winning small amounts of money.

The older I get, the more I realize my parents weren’t weird; they were just trying to figure it out like everyone else. “We have food at home” wasn’t a cruel attempt to destroy my childhood. It was someone quietly doing math I couldn’t see. There were groceries in the refrigerator, mouths to feed, bills on the counter, and apparently no compelling economic argument for spending $37 at a restaurant because I suddenly decided chicken fingers tasted better when someone else cooked them. The thermostat makes sense now, too. As a kid, I couldn’t understand why touching it produced the same parental reaction I imagine you’d get from attempting to launch a missile. Now I understand. I pay utility bills. Suddenly, 68 degrees isn’t a temperature; it’s a financial strategy. Arriving absurdly early at the airport? I finally understand that one too. My mom wasn’t fascinated by airports because no one is. She simply understood that sitting peacefully at the gate with a book and overpriced coffee was preferable to sprinting through Terminal C with luggage, sweating through your shirt, and questioning every decision that led you to Gate 47B.

Although if I ever buy one of those giant weekly pill organizers with separate compartments for morning, afternoon, and evening, I expect someone to stage an intervention. Until then, you’ll find me wearing my Costco socks, protecting my afternoon nap, eating the food we already have at home, and arriving at the airport several hours before boarding; and if you touch my thermostat, we’re going to have a problem. Apparently, this is what winning looks like.

So what’s one thing you swore you’d never become... that you’ve absolutely become?

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