I am distraught.
I have one foot on my grave and the other on a banana peal.
I have just marched past a significant milestone on the inextricable journey toward death.
I just bought my first pair of reading glasses.
The thought that I may need a pair of readers had been on my mind for a while. But I kept finding just the right spot where my eyes could focus. I wasn't ready for them yet.
Then last week, while reviewing papers with a client, I just couldn't get things quite into focus. My client offered me her "cheaters." Wow! I could read again!
When my father turned 45, he was old, over the hill. I don't feel old. I'm still climbing!
Sure, a few gray hairs have turned up. My wife occasionally teases me about needing "Just For Men" hair dye. But that is just an anomaly.
Probably some sort of genetic fluke. Kind of like the genetic fluke that causes hair follicles to migrate in my sleep from my head to my back, ears and other undesirable places.
So yesterday, I was at one of our local pharmacies, picking up my meds, and I noticed that there was a display of reading glasses. I had a book with me to pass the time while I waited.
I picked up a pair of readers that didn't look TOO bad, and "borrowed" them while I waited.
The book was a real page-turner. The glasses made the reading a lot more comfortable.
Comforting myself with the knowledge that the glasses were of the smallest magnification, I put them on the counter next to the cash register at check out.
So here I am, having just finished a great book, not suffering from eyestrain, staring my age right in my bespectacled face. Even able to see it.
Well, it does you no good to complain about cruddy shoes to someone without feet. Discussing this milestone with my colleagues, one told me about having cataract surgery at 30-something. Crud! That beats me hands down.
I guess I'll get over it. It didn't kill my father.
Now, at least I can see.