It’s inevitable. I’m getting old. And before you go off on “you’re not old, I’m old,” a few things. One, it’s all relative, and two, this is not so much me getting old as me turning…adult.

As I find myself at home for another non-white Christmas (Okay, that sounds wrong. Kansas is almost entirely white. Population-wise. What I mean to say was snow white. Not the Disney movie. But the weather phenomenon.), I can’t help but feel like a full-time, full-fledged, card-carrying… adult. I’m even getting along with my parents. This can’t be happening.

The list of disturbing, adult-like behaviors won’t seem to end. I saw some neighborhood kids (born in the 1990s-the 90s!) and the first thing that came to mind was “I can remember when they were born!” Others that I used to babysit are now in high school. And still others see me jogging down the street and stare me down, wondering who I could possibly be.

Some call it maturing. I call it getting old. I used to be the biggest sugar tooth this side of the Mississippi. I used to eat table sugar from the bowl, just for the taste. Now I look at a candy bar around the house and think, “Oh. That looks *too* sweet.” And for the first time, I’m dieting. Okay, not dieting. But just trying to watch what I eat. My metabolism hath slowed.

I watch TV and see nothing on MTV that I recognize. I drive around town and see new buildings and stores. Trees are gone; others have been planted. My parents got new counters. Our dog died. My dad has geeked out the stereo in the house. I understand the web design concern with fonts that are too small.

But there’s still hope. Margaret Atwood wrote it: “Another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.” I still check my mom’s secret hiding places for treats, like I used to-it’s just that they’re now dried blueberries instead of licorice or malted milk balls. I ran the old hill that gave me shin splints in high school, and the same muscles bother me (damn you fibularis longus).

But I think more than anything lately, I’ve somehow come upon movies and conversations and stories that have tried to teach me one thing: life is short and precious; it moves too fast, and it’s better to have loved and lost. Maybe it’s just the holidays, but I’ve found a renewed sense of hope and wonder with the world, something that I’d lost somewhere along the way.