"And the beauty of a woman, with passing years only grows!"
― Audrey Hepburn
"Wisdom comes with winters"
― Oscar Wilde
"Twenty-three is old. It's almost 25, which is like almost mid-20s."
― Jessica Simpson
Age is just a number.
Tell that to my eyes. I can embrace the aging process all I want, but I'm never going to be okay with the way my eyes have been betraying me.
I've always liked my eyes. I have pretty eyes. They used to work great with no glasses or contacts required. Other than being a little too leaky during sad movies and some phone company commercials, I've had no complaints about my eyes.
Until a few years ago when they stopped working the way they should.
I behaved badly when the doctor gave me a prescription for bifocals. You know how a toddler will have a full body freakout when they don't get what they want? I could have given lessons to those toddlers. I pouted. I refused to look at frames and dismissed them all as ugly. It's possible that I stamped my foot. I am not proud of that moment.
I only need them for reading or working on the computer, I still have decent far-away vision, so that's something. At first, I only wore them because it was more comfortable to do so, I didn't need to wear them.
Now?
I can't sew without them. I can't read without them. I can't use my phone, or read instructions on my anti-aging cream, or sign a receipt for the pizza delivery guy without them.
I can't always find them. I went for decades without glasses and now I have to learn to keep track of them? I'm not cut out for this.
In an effort to cut down on frustration, I have posted drugstore readers throughout my house and my cubicle at work in case of emergency. Whatever room you go in, you will find a pair of readers. I'm not even joking. Go look under your couch cushion and you will find a pair of my readers. Try not to break them.
I've had this prescription for two years now and I think it's time for a new one. Even with the bifocals, I'm having some difficulty.
Captcha for instance.
I hate captcha. Every time I have to enter a series of letters, this is what I'm muttering:
Is that an 'N' or an 'R'?
Is that a lower case 'L' or the number 1?
I don't have a fucking key on my keyboard for 'the artist formerly known as Prince' symbol.
I will just enter what ever letters I see through the cloudy haze of suck and am always surprised if it's right.
I usually need two or three attempts before getting it right.
I am going to try to appreciate that I still have my vision, even if I've reached the stage where driving at night is risky. I can't imagine having to use my night vision for captcha.
Still, if there is anything that makes me feel my age, it's my eyes. And I trusted them.
I also learned when I went to the eye doctor that I'm a spasmodic accommodator. Which, even without knowing what that meant, was not a shock. That sounds like me.
The eye doctor got annoyed with me when we were doing the 'is this better or is this better' thing. I kept saying it was worse at random times when it should have been better or I had previously said it was better.
He thought I was messing with him.
Finally, he had a light bulb moment and tested his theory out with his laser light of torture.
He assured me the problem wasn't my right eye. The problem was with my brain.
This is something every hypochondriac loves to hear.
"Your brain isn't working right."
My brain decides at unpredictable moments that it is going to take away my right eye's ability to focus.
It was kind of a relief. It explained why my eye makeup is trashed at the end of every day. Things will get blurry, I rub my eyes and then my morning efforts are smeared over my hand and around my eyes.
The glasses help with that. Not so much the random blurriness, but they do keep me from rubbing my mascara all over my face.
I have been enjoying my fifties, there is far more good than bad about getting older.
The bad things have been trying, though. First my uterus turned on me, and now it's the eyes. I'm really kind of afraid what will happen next.
Oh, and in the spirit of honesty, the bifocals really don't have much to do with my inability to sew.
Earlier on Huff/Post50:
