Fuck, I’m Old.
Fuck I’m old. You know how I know this?
‘Cuz I be napping. You would think that not being able to throw back 13 shots to the face without having a 13-day hangover, or years of pro-rated back fat finally catching up to me would be the dead giveaway, but nope. I treasure naps like I treasure all those poor animals in the Sarah McLachlan animal cruelty commercial. DAMN YOU SARAH MCLACHLAN!
I mean, who the fuck takes naps? I’ll tell you who: babies and old people. This is how I further know I’m old, because babies dread naps. As a child, I never willingly wanted to go to sleep. I wanted to play Goddammit! How was I supposed to just drop all my toys, and go from 93 to 0 just because my mom told me it was nap time?! That shit don’t even make sense. Nowadays, show me a couch and I’ll show you Grandpa Simpson. See, it’s one thing to just fall asleep from exhaustion (which I do as well), but to make the conscious decision and say, “Welp, I think I’m going to take a nap now” screams old. And if your sole reason for taking a nap is to prepare for a night out? Then congratulations, you’ve just added 2 years to your real age.
‘Cuz I be drinking needing coffee. When my great-grandfather was alive and I was still small enough to sit on his lap while he played Black-Jack, sometimes I would be lucky enough to drink his coffee. On a good day, I’d even get my own cup. I remember making a huge deal out of it, and dipping my pandesal into it with glee. When I got older, I drank it when I was bored at work since it was always around being in an office environment. Then, I discovered Starbucks and embarked on a world of vanilla-iced-everythang-caramel-frappachino-mocha-choca-latta-tata’s. By the time I was done whipped-creaming and extra shot of vanilla-ing my coffee, it wasn’t even coffee anymore.
What was once a novelty is now almost a necessity. Today I need coffee, because either I’m a) hungover or b) will stab someone in the neck if I don’t have any.
‘Cuz I be looking like shit and DGAF. A few weeks ago I was left without a choice but to attend my friends basketball game in Queens. If I was 22, or even 25, I would’ve took a cab home. I was in sweats (not even my “good” sweats mind you), had absolutely no makeup on, and I was about to be in a room with a bunch of dudes most of which I didn’t even know. Normally, this would not fly. Normally, I would’ve waited in the car. But after a while, you stop giving a fuck and realize that once someone sees you looking your worst, it can only go up from there. You also remember that most of these dudes playing ball are 26 on average and you have no reason to look cute in front of them anyway. Put me in a room with some grown-ass professionals though and it’s a different story. I’m not walking within 20 feet of them unless I have concealer and blush on at the very least.