After many years of putting off eye exams and convincing myself that I really could see just fine, the headaches and dizzy spells and squintiness marched me straight into the exam room of a google-eyed optometrist yesterday. I read the same five rows of letters, was repeatedly told to stop squinting, had lights of all kinds pointed directly into my eyeballs, and by the end of it I was shoved out into a room full of frames and told I’d be wearing glasses ‘constantly’ from now on.
“So pick something you’re comfortable with!” he said.
Got it, doc. Overwhelmed with the sheer volume of options on display in front of me, I tried on an irrational number of similar-looking frames before calling in my colleagues for opinion reinforcement.
After settling on frames I can’t even picture now, purchasing some glasses and recovering from the sticker shock, the basic truth of what just happened really set in:
I’m getting old.
Getting married didn’t make me feel like an old lady. Becoming a Mrs. and being referred to as such — that hasn’t made me feel old. I have a stiff back some mornings and I contribute to a retirement account. None of that felt like aging.
But the fact that my eye sight, which was perfectly fine at one time, has begun to deteriorate — that’s a sign of aging.
In other news, Hugh has a gray hair.
He may have more — heck, I may have some — which I plan to look for when my new glasses come in next week.