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Good eyes gone bad
The eye doctor warned me. While jotting notes on my exam form last fall, he said, "These glasses will be good for about a year, but not much longer -- your eyes are still changing."
Changing. What a nice way of putting it. My eyes are "changing." If they "change" much more, I will officially join the ranks of little old ladies who ask strangers to read labels for them at the grocery story.
"Excuse me, dearie, but does this say 'pearl onions‚ or 'peeled grunions?‚' " they ask, holding out two cans and "ratcheting" their arms back and forth, trying to bring the words into focus.
They wear pillbox hats over their blue hair and carry white vinyl pocketbooks to match their shoes. I'm not ready for that.
I admit, I need help now and then. At home, family members fasten my bracelets, close the occasional clasp on a pin, thread a sewing needle, read the fine print on a measuring cup. But that's different.
Those are private favors, family business. Like when you fish the last coffee filter out of the wastebasket and rinse it off so you can use it again when you run out. Or when you borrow your husband's toothbrush because yours accidentally dropped from the ledge and landed in the toilet. It's the kind of thing that nobody needs to know about.
Calling out for assistance in the grocery story is another matter entirely.
That's a public admission of aging. It's like abandoning your daily sit-ups, because you've finally surrendered your abs to gravity. The next step is prune juice and denture cream. I'm too young.
Soon I'll be forced to keep my glasses beside me on the night stand. When I roll out of bed in the morning and feel my way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, I'll have to wear them if I want to avoid a head-on collision with the refrigerator. It's depressing.
It seems like I went from 20/20 vision to trifocals in a matter of weeks. I'm on the downhill slide. I already wear arch supports and carry a lumbar pillow. What's next?
I suppose this fall, the eye doctor will make a note on my exam form that says, "Add client's name to guide-dog wait list." It's a safe bet that I'll need a stronger prescription, or twin magnifying glasses. Either that, or I'll have to fit giant-sized clasps on all my jewelry.
In the meantime, I'll rely on the pictures to distinguish between "pearl onions" and "peeled grunions" at the grocery store. I'll keep somebody handy when I'm dressing, in case I need help fastening bracelets and pin clasps.
And I'll try to sidestep that big thing called the refrigerator, on my way to the coffee maker each morning.
Aging gracefully is an art. I'm trying, but my arms are too short. Long arms are definitely an asset when reading with outdated trifocals. A six-foot stretch from shoulder to fingertips would be about right.
If you see me at the grocery story, squinting at a couple of cans and muttering to myself, you might stop and ask if I need assistance. I'll try to be civil, but it's a safe bet that I won't approach you to ask for help.
I've made my peace with arch supports and lumbar pillows, but I draw the line at asking other people to read labels for me. My hair's not that blue yet. Although every day I look in the mirror, I see that it's turning a deeper shade of silver.