I was very surprised to find that I needed glasses, given that I am only thirty five years old*. In fact, it never would have occurred to me to even go and get my eyes checked, except that I was struggling to read. The pages of my books would swim before my eyes, my computer screen would go blurry, and the messages on my mobile phone looked like tiny ants marching across my screen. What’s more, I kept sending people texts like ‘Set you in jive’ and ‘Be yer doon’, which made people think I had a drinking problem**.
So off I went, to get my eyes tested. It turns out I do have visual signs of aging, in addition to the visible ones (which, ironically, I hadn’t fully appreciated until I got my reading glasses and could see how wrinkly I’ve become).
So off I went, to get my eyes tested. It turns out I do have visual signs of aging, in addition to the visible ones (which, ironically, I hadn’t fully appreciated until I got my reading glasses and could see how wrinkly I’ve become).
Despite the shock to my ego, I am happy to have my specs. Not only can I now read books in comfort, but I can work out that I am meeting my friend Karen ‘in Westfield’ and not, say, ‘in Wee fish’ (which can be very hard to find).
On the other hand, I am very unhappy to have my specs, as they are a constant reminder that I am already thirty years old***. I don’t want to be old. I want to be forever young.Now, I know that that’s not a politically correct thing to say. I am supposed to ‘embrace aging’, ‘celebrate my forties****’, and ‘feel empowered and powerful’. Well, yeah, I do, definitely. I’d just be embracing, celebrating and powering much more cheerfully if my eyesight wasn’t failing and my back didn’t hurt. To be fair, I’m not doing too badly. I’m not grey yet (except, inexplicably, for two of my eyebrow hairs), I don’t have to pluck my chin, and I can still recall exactly what I did yesterday (if I put on my glasses and look in my diary). But I want to be younger.
My mum is no help when I discuss this with her. She scoffs, ‘You think you’re aging? What about me? I’m fifty five!*****’ But just because my mother is older than me doesn’t help me to deal with it any better. And besides, if my mother wasn’t older than me, well, we’d have even bigger problems on our hands.
Still, I am trying to accept my fate. For one thing, there’s not much I can do to halt the pace of time, other than certain surgical procedures which I have ruled out on the basis of a) cost, b) health risks, and c) the faces of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (which I have only been watching because I have been too blind to read).
And for another thing, I have a long way to go. After all, I’m still only twenty two.
*that may be a slight underestimate
**which I don’t. Noon is a perfectly acceptable time to start drinking.***even more inaccurate
****if I was in my forties, which of course I am not....
*****this may be a slight underestimate