“And the beauty of a woman, with passing years only grows!”
― Audrey Hepburn
“Wisdom comes with winters”
― Oscar Wilde
Age is just a number.
Tell that to my fucking 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. I never wore glasses or contacts. Other than being a little too leaky during sad movies and some phone company commercials, I’ve had no complaints about them.
Until a few years ago when they stopped working the way they should.
I. Had. To. Get. Bifocals.
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 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 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 readers I put there, just in case. Try to not 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 fucking hate captcha. Every fucking 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.
It usually takes two or three tries. Fucking captcha.
I am going to really 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 something I’d do.
The eye doctor was getting very 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.
I think he thought I was fucking with him.
Finally, he had a light bulb moment and tested his theory out with his little laser light of torture thingy.
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. It’s attractive.
The glasses help with that. Not so much the random blurriness, but they do keep me from rubbing my mascara all over the place.
I really have been enjoying my fiftieth year, there is far more good than bad about getting older as far as I’m concerned.
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, in the spirit of honesty, the bifocals really don’t have much to do with my inability to sew.