"It's time." So said my eye doctor this afternoon after my exam. I knew what she was going to say. Anyone who has been with me in a dimly-lit restaurant of late would know what was coming next. Bifocals. (Progressives...Political correctness demands I call them progressives!)
Bifocal (progressives) contacts. Rigid gas permeable bifocal (progressives) contacts. Plus fake tears to keep my eyes from drying out. Plus new glasses. Those, at least, will stay single vision lenses since I rarely wear them. But bifocal (progressives) contacts are on the way.
I am officially and solidly middle-aged now. I have the gray hair to match. The stunningly patient SML came down to help me pick out new frames and the ones she selected (which are the ones I bought) have gray frames. She said, "They match your hair." Nice. All I need now, quite frankly, is a knee replacement. Or better yet, a hip replacement. Or some internal obstruction. Bring it on, middle age. I'm ready to take you on. And now I'll be able to see you coming, should you choose to further attack me in a dimly-lit restaurant.
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