If there’s anything in this life more depressing than growing older, I’ll be damned if I know what it is.

Wait a minute, strike that. Relationships are definitely more depressing than growing older. But getting older is a close second.

Oh yeah, and then there’s civil unrest, hunger, disease and genocide. Those things really suck, too.

But my point is, somewhere not too far down the line is getting older.

Many people associate growing old with becoming elderly, but the emotional scars of the aging process begin at a young age.

When I was about 8 years old, I went to Adventureland with my family. We went once every couple of years or so, but this time was different.

It was different because when I tried to ride the little planes with Snoopy on top, they told me I was too big.

I was crushed; that ride kicked ass! Each plane had a stick so you could control how high or low you flew, repeatedly, in circles, around the ceramic statue of Snoopy.

It was like you were Maverick from “Top Gun.” I could practically hear that “Dangerzone” song. Da na da da na, da da, da na na na.

It all just fades into memory now. Last year when I tried to ride it, they had me escorted from the park.

That little stroll down memory lane represents one of the first times I realized I was getting older, but it was far from the last.

Remember when all you wanted was toys for Christmas?

Then you get a little older and you actually don’t mind getting a few clothes. Especially if they’re cool. Like an acid washed denim jacket.

Then one day you wake up and are appalled by what you actually want for Christmas. You are actually excited about getting household items from Santa Claus. This year I caught myself walking through Hy-Vee thinking, “Boy, it sure would be nice to have that Tupperware over there.”

Maybe that’s why Santa stops coming when you’re older; all you want for Christmas is a bunch of crap.

I mean, the elves may be skilled at making little choo-choos, but who can expect them to whip up a grapefruit knife for Johnny Firstapartment?

Is all the excitement really sucked out of life at such a young age? Well, no. But it sometimes seems that way.

Sometime in your early 20s, when you burn up the last of your teen angst, it feels like there’s a void there.

I mean, I used to be pissed off about things. Not really anything specific, but more like everything in general.

Now I catch myself with thoughts like, “Damn, there is so much wrong with the world we live in. I think I’ll put on some James Taylor and take a nap.”

Which brings me to music. Probably the most obvious example of the aging process. Sometimes I look at my CD collection and think to myself: What the hell happened?

I’ll make a few musical confessions to you here and now. But I ask that you not judge me. I assume I can trust you.

Sometimes, late at night, in my car, I hear an Eagles song and think to myself, “Hey, this ain’t so bad.” After forcing myself to vomit and say nine Hail Mary’s, I continue on my journey.

I’ve caught myself strolling around campus with a Gin Blossoms song in my head — and I found it pleasant! If this condition goes unchecked, Hootie may be next.

Star 102.5 is one of the FM pre-sets in my car. I pretend like it’s just so I can hear ’80s Friday nights, but honestly, I sometimes flip by hoping that they’ll play some Fleetwood Mac.

Then there’s probably the greatest musical measure of the aging process known to humankind.

This disease primarily affects men and is most potent between the ages of about 17 and 25. It’s called Tom Petty Syndrome.

When I was about 17, I thought Tom Petty was all right, but no big deal.

A few short years later, I am convinced that he is a messenger from God paving the way for the second coming of the Messiah. By the time I’m 25, I’m sure I’ll be convinced he actually is the Messiah.

So why did I feel the need to spend all this space whining about the aging process? Because I wanted to let people who are going through the same things know they’re not alone.

And seriously, is anyone else starting to like the Eagles? It’s really starting to freak me out.

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Ben Godar is a junior in sociology from Ames. At press time he was listening to Dan Fogelberg and canning pears.