I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for years now that I’m actively getting dumber. I know that it seems counterintuitive, especially given the extremely intimidating arrival of the University bill in my inbox all too often, but it might be happening. I might be getting dumber.

My worries originated when I found myself in a class that required that I had taken some math course many moons ago. I had, but had only dim memories of struggling to stay awake in class. I assumed the prerequisite was more of a formality and less of a reality. False. Faced with problem sets peppered with strange symbols I dubbed “curly d’s” and “stretchy f’s,” I was forced to shamelessly Google mathematical concepts at which my high-school self would have scoffed. (You know what works surprisingly well, though? Looking up math tutorials on YouTube.)

I eventually muddled through the course with a cobbled-together understanding of math, but by no means did I ever regain the mastery I thought I had once achieved. A confession: I absolutely loved high school calculus but acted like I didn’t. My college-aged (and, in fact, even graduate-student-aged) self, however, could barely read a few intimidating Greek letters without assistance.

My second grievance: I kind of can’t read anymore. I haven’t fallen illiterate, obviously, but my attention span for reading has withered. Over winter break, my little sister, worried about impending high school, asked me how many books she will be expected to read. In response, I reminisced at her for longer than she bargained for, but also realized that I used to actually read books. Given, I did not actually complete every book I was assigned, but I at least gave it an effort. Now, every PDF file I download off Coursework makes me feel handcuffed to my laptop for an eternity, and pages that go beyond the single digits make me feel like I am being stretched too thin. It’s worse when I’m not reading for school. If the interesting articles that grace my inbox are more than a few paragraphs, it feels like fighting magnets to keep my eyes reading, and I don’t even want to talk about the books I read for fun these days. (Bottom line: Not acceptable, even ironically.)

In fact, I think my attention span might be suffering in general. Another conversation with my little sister reminded me of the long hours our younger siblings spend and our younger selves spent in school, at least moderately mentally engaged. Considering the multitude of silent death glares that our professors receive if they lecture to minute 51, I’m amazed that I ever managed to slog through a school day that was more than seven hours long. I try to remember what it was like, but my memory comes up short. I remember being bored, but I don’t remember going into an uncontrollable rage, sobbing or just storming out, which is what my present-day self would do if faced with that kind of day.

So, there you have it. I think I might be getting dumber. Penning a weekly column is probably pushing my feeble mind to its utmost capacity. I don’t know the proper course of action. My parents scoff and tell me to stop complaining. I’m not sure that Vaden would grant me an appointment. I don’t want to become one of those people who goes off about the glory days, spouting off numerous stories about their golden youths, beginning with, “When I was smart…”

I hope I’m just being paranoid. Maybe my youth was also a haze of confusion and feeling mostly dull, and I just don’t remember those parts. Maybe this is normal, and being an adult means just feeling slightly inadequate and a little bit like I’ve somehow tricked everyone else. Let’s hope so.

Want to reminisce about the smart days? E-mail Jade at [email protected].