5 Sure Signs of Growing Older

Beginning the first day of senior year of college, I aptly labeled myself a “senior citizen.” Walking onto campus on move in day felt different from the three years past. I felt older and the routine welcome week jobs I had as an orientation leader suddenly felt contrived. I vividly recall walking around campus as a freshman, talking with my friend from home about how the seniors seemed so old; “like real adults,” my friend commented. Now, I’m not sure how “adulty” I felt, but I certainly sense a shift occurring.

Having been out of school for over a year, now, I am sometimes overwhelmed with feeling juvenile and inexperienced at work and in the community. Although I do not let this get to me, I am frequently asked when I will go back to school. When I mention I will be going back as a teacher, I always get a shocked, “really?!”

All that aside, I have been noticing another shift. A strange one, but somewhat welcomed. I am getting older and the thoughts I have and habits I have adopted have proven this to me. How many of these signs have you noticed in your lives?

1. Naps

Admittedly, this is not a new habit. Senior year of high school marked the beginning of this great procrastination method. Now that I don’t have homework, I still find an excuse to take my naps. What time do these naps occur? Take your pick - 12pm, 3pm, 4pm, or a pre-dinner 5pm nap. I once had a friend ask me why I was awake at 3 in the afternoon. Naps make me feel both young and old but, man, nothing makes you feel older than hearing your back crack as you finally get out of bed after the sixth snooze alarm goes off.

2. Social Media

How do people get hundreds of likes on these photos of their sandwiches? I look at some instagram photos and wonder if I even know 759 people who could like my pictures. Things that I’ve learned? The duck face is still popular, but has matured to a sort of confused chicken pucker (smaller beak, bigger results). The healthier your homemade meal, the more likes it will accrue. Hashtags aren’t just ironic anymore, and a supposed #l4l (like for like?!) can get you a like from hundreds including handles with names along the lines of @VeganLoverDabsAllDay. “Finstagram” is not a nickname for a hip Chuckie Finster. Puns will get you tons (of likes), and so will rhyming. And, finally, we can no longer rejoice when we get our 11th like and the names turn to numbers; we shall only rest easy when we reach the triple digits.

3. Clothes

If I could live in sweatpants all day, I 100% would. The comfier the better. The slouchier, the roomier, the comfier, the cozier. I would choose a tshirt dress over a mini skirt any day of the week. If it has fleece, I’m in. I sometimes see pictures of my high school self and shudder at the amount of discomfort I must have endured. Grandma was right all this time: an elastic waistband = a happy waist.

4. Children

I alternate between ogling at sweet babies and covering my ears when I hear a child scream. My many years of babysitting has given me a large collection of memories and headaches. I have found myself arguing with a seven year old over whether Zoey 101 was still on. I have had the best afternoons riding on a Fisher Price roller coaster through a sprinkler with a four year old in tow. I put my foot down when we play “family” unless I can play the baby who gets to take naps. Children are both daunting and adorable to me. Our difference in age is becoming increasingly larger and I am acutely aware of this change.

5. Reminiscing

A simple picture from TimeHop can make me spiral into my past. I remember old friends who have grown apart, past teams who have left a handprint on my heart, and cringeworthy memories from high school. Although I am young, my past sometimes feels like a different lifetime. The shoeboxes that fill my house with my parents’ old photographs has never seemed more relevant. Now instead of digging through these boxes, I flip through my phone.

These are only a handful of my sure signs of growing older. Luckily, I've started welcoming these changes to make room for new memories and new habits in my twenties. So I keep collecting my observations and buckle up for the road ahead.

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The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

C. CarrollAugust 3, 2017FeaturedComment