I am thirty (plus two years.)
I need my sleep now more than ever.
There was a magical time, somewhere in my twenties, where I could operate on just a few hours of sleep, even after a night of pow-wowing with my girlfriends, and somehow wake up, bounce right back into life and hit up an entire day of work like nothing ever happened. And maybe even the gym on the way home.
And at thirty (plus two years), that never happens anymore. It fact, it seems like fiction.
What has happened is that even thinking of a party sometimes makes me feel tired. Planning a pow-wow or night out takes some planning and I now take into account the hours prior to it, the hours leading up to it, the actual event, the day after it, and it is all really quite exhausting.
Don’t get me started on drinking and a possible hangover. A hangover now will feel like going into battle with no armor. And that sometimes seems to last for days. Nobody has time to be worrying about recovering from that (plus, hello, an entire lost day for nursing that.)
So at thirty (plus two years), I sometimes get geeked to come home after a full week of work, activities, projects and the insanity that is rush hour, and what my excitement stems from is eating a lovely dinner and hitting up my shower (mmm, hot, hot water) with some lit candles (I like to shower in the dark) and this is seriously one of my favorite things to look forward to. After moisturizing my body, I put on my comfy clothes (lounge pants, t-shirt) and crawl into the most magical place that has ever existed—my bed.
My bed is my boyfriend. No lie. I love him. Warm, soft, reliable, always there, doesn’t talk back, and ensures a constant stream of warmth to my body like no other. I never want to leave him. We love eachother. Real, bonafide, hardcore love that nearly brings a tear to my eye when we have to part so I can start my day. Ours is a great romance.
This is my sanctuary, my secret place, that always makes it possible for me to get those much-needed 8 hours of sleep and makes me feel like a princess.
Sleep. One of those things that when you are younger you don’t think so much about. “You can sleep after you’re dead” is a phrase that isn’t in my lexicon. I don’t understand this concept, don’t subscribe to it, don’t want it.
In this decade, I need all the mental preparation and rest I can get for the next day so that I can be on my top game. A younger me would have laughed at this “needing eight hours of sleep” notion. But the present me side-eyes the younger me and says, “That’s what happens, when you are thirty (plus 2 years).”
Erica Christina lives on the East Coast and is a big fan of cheese. All kinds of cheese. She is a freelance writer and has contributed articles to xoJane, The Good Men Project and The Purple Fig.