I have been noticing lately that when I’m in the market it’s a little difficult reading the ingredient labels. I read in bed every night and have increased the font size slightly on my Kindle. So I’ve had an inner debate going on whether to see an eye doctor. It’s a distinct sign of getting old and I was resisting it.
I mentioned it to my best friend and she said to go, so I did. I went to her eye doctor, a wonderful, little, Armenian guy who’s probably 70 years old. If anyone knows about bad eyes it’s him. He took his time, asked kind questions and understood my hesitation. He said, “What did the right eye say to the left eye? -Between you and me, there’s something that smells…” He made me laugh and I felt at home.
I picked out some glasses with rhinestones on the frames. He said I should reconsider. I was trying to be different. He said with my hesitation I shouldn’t be drawing attention to my impairment. What! I had an impairment? That word felt like it physically hit me. I was impaired.
Even with my past wild years and my anarchistic tendencies, I have managed to maintain my health and some of my looks. This was a clear line in the sand. Impairments would now build up over the next decades and accumulate until my outer beauty and physical abilities were gone. It was downhill from here on out. I would have to learn surrender, or would it be a battle to forestall the ravages of age? I decided to be moderate. Over the next 2 decades I would allow myself to gain no more than 10 pounds, forget trends, not use Botox or get fillers or a facelift, exercise and eat sweets at least twice a week. I would date men who understood my parameters. There. I had figured out ageing.
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