Reading Glasses

Forty-something doesn’t feel like anything.  It doesn’t feel old, at least not most of the time.  It doesn’t feel young, especially when I look into the magnifying mirror.  God, that stupid magnifying mirror!  I have that stupid mirror because I can’t see a damned thing anymore.

Just like that, I woke up a year ago and thought I had gone blind.  I swear, I thought I had a brain aneurism, or a stroke or something as equally dreadful.  I couldn’t read the text.  I couldn’t read the time.  I could barely see the blasted phone.  I think I actually screamed.  The only response to my hysteria was a pair of glasses shoved in my face and a voice that said, “Welcome to my world, sweetheart.”

I protested and pushed away the glasses.  They got pushed back.  I took them and held them on my face.  Strains of Johnny Nash wafted through my head, “I can see clearly now…”  Stupid glasses.

Actually, I have four pair of glasses, one by the bed, one by the computer, one in my purse and one in my car. At any given moment I can only find one pair of glasses.  I have decided to purchase a nice pearl chain and hook the glasses around my neck like the ladies at the department store wore when I was a kid. 

But, I have to admit, I am enjoying the power that seems to come from looking up over your glasses, raising an eyebrow and saying, “Excuse me, did you say something?”  If you haven’t tried it you are missing a good thing.