I should have known it was coming. I keep saying I’m almost 50. I keep flipping my glasses up to peer at restaurant menus. The print on product labels gets smaller and smaller. But it still snuck up on me.
I went to the eye doctor on Friday and the verdict is in: I need bifocals.
While the doc was talking to me, it didn’t really sink in. It was only when they sat me down with the optician to pick out frames – “which need to be deep enough to accomodate the graduated lenses” that I got it.
I didn’t take it well. Cindy, the poor optician, kept showing me frame after frame, only to have me discard them on the counter with barely a glance at myself. I felt like she was very far away, speaking to me from a distant room.
“They just…I just…I don’t…” I said, flopping my hands over, discomfited.
“Oooh, those are cute on you!” said a bright-eyed elderly woman all dressed in lilac as I regarded myself balefully in tortise shell rims.
“I just don’t think I’m in the mood,” I muttered, grabbing my handbag and heading for the door.
“Oh, I understand, honey,” said Cindy. “These things take time.” She nodded understandingly as I stood by the front door, trying to flee my newfound sense of being truly, definitely middle-aged.
I have a feeling they have seen this before. They know.
Hope is not closing your eyes before difficulties, risks and failures. It is knowing that if you fail now, you will not always fail and if you suffer, you will recover. It is knowing that life is good and love is powerful and the future is full of promises.