Over the past week, I managed to squeeze in a couple of mini-vacations, and it was a blast on all accounts. But after surviving what should be a relaxing "adult" trip hunting bourbon, followed by a marathon day at Cedar Point, I have come to a very distinct conclusion: I'm getting old.
I’ve previously mused that I am living in the body of a 70-year-old woman when I am, indeed, a 44-year-old man. Not only that, but I think both of my recent experiences highlight why it's time to turn the music down and pull up a rocking chair. I'm approaching the crossroads of looking at retirement communities. No joke, I get mailers addressed to me, vying for my future residency at one of their serene settings for the elderly.
My best friend and I recently went to bourbon country for the simple pleasure of sipping bourbon, finding hard-to-find bottles, and spending some much-needed guy time together. Overall, it was a good trip, but wow, did I find myself exhausted by the entire experience. Let's be real, I'm 44. It's not like I'm an ancient man; I'm just firmly set in middle-aged status (at least by years, if not by mileage). Why would a trip to bourbon country be exhausting, you ask? Let me tell you.
We started our trip in Louisville, staying right off Whiskey Row. The area is steeped in bourbon history and has recently been revitalized with a multitude of distillers reestablishing themselves.
I booked a "boutique" hotel suite that looked great online. The suite itself was fine, but the majority of the building was undergoing heavy renovation. The elevator was out; there was no lobby except for a shell being constructed to a symphony of hammers and drills, and there was no air conditioning except for a single unit in our room.
I've prided myself on being able to "do hard things" throughout my adult life, and I acknowledge that this is a quintessential first-world problem. But I'll be damned if pulling my suitcase up to the 5th floor didn't wipe me out. I know, pathetic. But this was the first sign that my prematurely aged skeleton is feeling the miles. I felt every single step up to that room, and my overheated nervous system loved communicating that fact with the rest of my body.
The next leg of this trip was supposed to be a few nights spent in Frankfort. You may have noticed the operative word here: "supposed."
I had booked a VRBO for two nights. The house looked absolutely lovely online, and in person, it wasn't too bad. I think it would have been a great place to stay—had the AC been working. Mind you, this is the hottest part of the year, and it was blazing outside. When we entered the upstairs portion of this house, we noticed it right away.
"Huh," I said. "It sure is hot in here!"
It was a balmy 78 degrees. Indoors.
I've become a thermostat diva. I need ma AC! Weird things start to happen in my body when it's too hot. I immediately contacted the property manager, and they assured us that our comfort was paramount. It was not. We thought maybe they had just turned the unit on and it would cool down in time. It would not. We went out for a bit, hoping to return to a perfectly reasonable 72 degrees. We were sorely disappointed. When we returned around 9:00 PM, the temperature had actually climbed to a comfortable 82 degrees! 
Yes! That's precisely what a person living with MS needs! Hot, humid, stagnant interior temperatures.
My buddy is a contractor, and he identified the issues straight away. Extreme heat, mixed with a mad mechanical genius who blocked off the vents, equaled one of the worst nights of sleep we both had in years. So, we did what any self-respecting middle-aged men would do in our position: We threw in the towel and went home a day early. (And yes, we got a refund). At the very least we had a good haul of bourbon.
A few short days later, I took our oldest daughter to experience Cedar Point for the first time. If you've never been, it's an all-day endurance event of walking, riding, and baking in the sun. I haven't gotten to the point (literally and figuratively) in 10+ years, and I was living on the memories of a 30-something-year-old me. In those memories, roller coasters were spectacular and had zero physical impact on my well-being.
Apparently, things change.
We rode some big, violent coasters, and I felt every bit of that violence in my bones. Don't get me wrong, I still love riding, but geez. Out of the 29 rides that we took that day, I only started to black out once, suffered a toe injury that may or may not be broken, and experienced only mild nausea after every single drop. By the time the day was through, I was legitimately contemplating renting a mobility scooter to motor my happy ass back to the car. I was pooped.
But here is the contrast, and it’s a big one. When my buddy and I were mildly uncomfortable in a hot VRBO, we quit. But at Cedar Point? The absolute joy on my daughter's face overrode every single ache and pain in my body. No matter how tired I became, I kept going just to hear her yell "that was the best thing ever!!"
So, where does that leave me? Old, that's where. But am I going to slow down anytime soon? Nope. Because my wife and kids won't let me—and honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Being uncomfortable is good for you. It forces you to adapt. More importantly, it proves that your tolerance for misery expands exponentially when it’s for the people you love. I doubt your kids will always remember that your joints ached or that you had a hard time keeping up; they’ll just remember that you showed up, rode the rides, and did it with a smile on your face. (I’d even hazard a guess that I got a smile or two out of my cynically stoic best friend in Kentucky, so I'll count that as a win, too).
Keep showing up. Keep embracing the exhaustion and doing the things that matter for your people. You'll be glad you did, even while you’re fielding mailers from prospective retirement communities. Age might be a mindset, but my aching skeleton is definitely a physical state of being.
Thanks for reading.
Dad out.