For over a third of my life, I have identified as a backpacker.

It's not true. Not really. I certainly haven't spent a third of my life living in the same pair of ripped pants, with natural dreadlocks forming in my hair as I wash my underwear in the sink. But I have spent over two years that way, starting a third of my life ago.

It was a time I cherished. A time of growth, of self-discovery — and I don't just mean the discovery of my body odors and just how long I can go without shaving before people on the street begin to point. (The answer is 5 1/2 weeks.) Those years were some of the most defining of my life, and I cling to them. I cling to them passively in the daily wearing of the Maori fishhook necklace I made more than a decade ago. I cling to them rabidly by scrimping, saving and coercing my husband, toddler and growing fetus to tackle 30 hours of flying and 10 hours of train rides to attend an old flatmate and fellow backpacker's wedding in Germany three weeks ago.

Work life and mommyhood having settled in, there was a desperation in needing to prove to myself that I haven't completely lost my old identifier. We were going abroad!

Back in the day, I never felt more at home than when I was in a hostel. Hostels are breeding grounds for growth and new experiences ... and lice. You are forced out of your comfort zone at every moment, and I loved it. Sure, the bathroom is coed and the shower stalls not only don't have curtains but also are located directly behind the sinks. And yes, that guy staring at you through the mirror does seem to be brushing his teeth for a preposterously long time. But perhaps he just has bad plaque. Sure, you come back to your room to find your upper bunkmate having sex on your bed rather than her own, but she does have a point that knocking boots on her bed would put her at risk of falling and breaking a leg. Sure, the smelly guy begins talking in his sleep about his plans to systematically murder each person in the shared room, but if he didn't, you would never have the opportunity to pack your bag and see how beautiful the city is at 4 a.m.

I remember turning 26 and realizing that I was now too old to stay in many hostels. As a friend ever so kindly pointed out, "they're called youth hostels for a reason." Not that all hostels were off-limits. There was that family I had met in Peru. And that man in his 50s who had spoken so livingly of his wife and kids for letting him live his dream of backpacking New Zealand for a month after his employer laid him off. And the grandpa I had met in a hostel on a Viking boat who kept saying, "To paraphrase Danny Glover, I'm too old for this ship." I had seen older adults keeping the joy of hosteling alive, and I was determined to age gracefully into one of those people.

My husband was not. He never liked hostels. He never will like hostels. What he does like is me. And in appeasing me over the years, he has given up comfort and showers for bedbugs and drafty rooms.

In an effort to connect with my roots and save money for our trek to the wedding in Germany, I booked hostels. And I learned something pretty shocking. Turns out there is a massive difference between the irritation of being kept awake by strangers snoring, as well as sharing a kitchen with people who steal your food, when you are still a "youth" and what you feel when you are six months pregnant and toting a toddler.

After getting locked out of our hostel and pulling a toddler and my growing belly up four flights of slanting stairs that looked as if they were being held up by two rusted nails and some hair spray — only to arrive once again in a room that had no curtains despite the late-night sun — I felt the glare of my husband's "I told you so" expression from across the room as he put down the stroller and massive suitcase and backpack.

I turned to him and said: "It's official. I'm too old for this ship."

Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. Check out her column at http://didionsbible.com. To find out more about Katiedid Langrock and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.