My body has officially entered “give up mode.”
I’ve had suspicions for a while. Like that one time my heart felt funny after eating a double bacon cheeseburger. Or that other time when my chub-rub felt a little chubbier than normal. I just didn’t want to believe.
Even when I got my first two-day hangover, I refused to believe. I still watch children’s cartoons. My body should take that into consideration and give me some sort of raincheck on the whole “aging” thing.
But alas, I’m an adult. And to celebrate, my body will begin giving up on life and continue indefinitely.
Don’t get me wrong. There are certain aspects of “give up mode” I enthusiastically enjoy. Take for example, a Saturday night in NYC.
Twenty-one-year-old me would feel obligated to go out. She’d put on her painful dancing shoes. She’d take an hour-long train ride into downtown, Manhattan, then walk 20 blocks because there’s a bar in Alphabet City where a girl she somewhat knows knows the bartender. He inconveniently would not be working that night.
Twenty-five-year-old me, however, puts on her stretchy pants. No need to lie about having conflicting engagements. No need to make up an excuse about working late. Just “NO.” Or if she feels like being descriptive, “I’ve already called my pizza delivery guy.”
Other parts (like 97%) of “give up mode” are not that sexy.
They mostly involve lamenting the loss of your metabolism and wondering things like, “will I gain weight by eating that cupcake?” and “well… what if I just licked it?”
After 25, you spend your days craving food. Not just “oh, I love food.” I mean all-consuming obsession. It becomes the cure-all for life.
Had a bad day? Pizza.
Stressed at work? Cookies.
Experiencing a feeling? Everything.
To combat your infatuation with food, your body will become slower and more prone to lethargy.
Fitness becomes the equivalent of calculus. Some people are naturally born to excel. They’ll run 10 miles with the grace of a gazelle — their tight skin glistening against the radiant morning sun. Most of us will struggle. We know how it works, we just can’t. Every effort looks awkward and painful. It is.
In your mid-twenties, you finally begin to understand why people around you talk about fitness incessantly. It’s a triumph of human nature. It’s telling every molecule in your body, “put down the donut and do this incredibly unenjoyable thing that might produce results after six-to-eight weeks, but only if you do it all the time and never show food your weakness.”
I would blog about fitness, too, if I could. I’d call my blog “Conquering the World With Sweat” and include GIFs of things exploding magnificently. Maybe I will do this once I manage to run 10 blocks without wanting to throw up.
So there you have it, folks — my scientifically valid description of the aging process.
If you’re my age and reading this, hopefully you’ll walk away knowing you’re not alone. Our thighs can jiggle as one.
If you’re 21 and reading this: go eat all the fried chicken, you lucky SOB.