At Home on the Geriatric Ward

I have to admit, around 7:30 on a work night I’m in my pajamas entertaining the notion of going to bed. The coziness of my 500 thread sheets (yes, I’ve spoiled myself), the comforting weight of my duvet, and the six pillows accompanying me (strategically placed nest-like) make my bed one of my favourite places to be.

Around 3:00 each afternoon I count down the hours until I can sleep.  When did this happen?  When did “going to bed” become the highlight of my day?  And this middle-aged phenomenon doesn’t seem to be limited to me alone.

No.

The other day during lunchtime in the staffroom, I polled my colleagues and it seems as though the majority feels the same.  In fact the hands raised rivaled any geriatric ward especially now that our daylight hours are limited.

Remember when we were little kids and we railed against the Parental Units attempts at getting us to wash up and brush our teeth because this was the beginning of the loathed bedtime ritual…which ultimately led to, well, being stuck in a room in the dark pinned by blankets that were supposedly “tucking us in”.

Welded hoops of steel more likely.

“Bed time” was synonymous with “Dentist appointment” or “House cleaning day”.

And then, as teenagers and young adults, the later you stayed out the better.  You weren’t ready to take on the world and all the wonders it offered until 10:00 at night.  And you had energy to spare after dancing and visiting until the wee hours of the morning.

Nope.

Now 7:30pm seems to be as late as I my body and mind can stay “out and about”.  It’s around then I crave flannel and the taste of toothpaste.

Am I,

dare I say it,

*gasp*

getting OLD?

Hmm.  Funny I don’t feel too embarrassed or too depressed or that the wind has been knocked out of my sails to admit this fact.

But then again, as I write this I’m in my choice places to be, wearing my worn ancient blue flannels, dried Crest on my chin.

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