Fine, 43. You win. Whatever.

Many years ago, my sister and I used to nag our mother about getting glasses. She had never worn glasses her entire life, but it was obvious she’d reached the point where she needed them ~ though for whatever reason (*cough, cough, denial, cough*), she just refused to do it. Instead, she would do crazy things like sit and read the newspaper with a magnifying glass – a huge, thick one – at the kitchen table. The straw that broke that camel’s proverbial back, however, the night my mother went to call my sister, whose phone number at the time began with 941. My mom dialed the number, got a “weird” message, hung up, and dialed again. As she was talking to my sister, the doorbell rang. There stood two policemen, asking what her emergency was. Turns out, she had dialed 911, instead of 941. She got her glasses shortly thereafter.

My sister and I found this story hysterical.

But it’s not so funny anymore.

You see, I’ve had this….problem….brewing for a while now. But until recently, I could always find a good workaround (hold everything at arm’s length!), and often, just as good an excuse to offer by way of explanation (the lighting in here is just awful! such a glare!). It would appear, however, that my favorite and most convenient workaround – my arm – is no longer sufficient (read: not long enough).

So, I broke down yesterday and bought some stupid reader glasses. WAAHHHH!

I am not happy about this. In fact, I’m really just plain angry. I’ve never worn glasses, ever, and I’m not particularly happy about accepting the fact that yes, on occasion, there is in fact some print that is too small.

Before finally accepting defeat, I considered adopting the strategy of a friend of mine who was obviously also in denial for a while. She told me that whenever she went shopping at, say, Target, the first thing she would do was go to the pharmacy section. There, she would grab a pair of readers, put them on, and do her shopping. Then, on her way to the check out, she would swing back by the pharmacy, return the readers, and be on her way. Yes, it’s total lack of ownership. On so many levels! I was so tempted.

I probably should not feel too badly about this. Right? I mean, I had the good fortune to go 43 years without needing them. And yet.

I AM SO BITTER.

I hate wearing them (which I will only do at the most desperate of times). I hate the feel of them on my face. And what? Am I now forever committed to tilting my head ‘just so’ for photos (see Exhibit B) so that my actual eyes can be seen, as opposed to the glare from the lenses (Exhibit A)? Am I going to have to start carrying them around with me, which means, keeping track of them? Will this, in turn, mean I will soon be needing a funky beaded chain to wear around my neck so that I can take them off and on without losing them? Maybe one that is red and purple? See, that is the problem: readers are just the gateway to other horrifying things, like polyester elastic-waistband pants, and orthopedic Velcro shoes. Can you hear the sound of my weeping yet?

Well, it’s a good thing that I have made my peace with Denial already. Because I’m probably going to need those readers to see the fine print on the medical documents when I go to the doctor tomorrow about a varicose vein in my leg. Ahhh…good, good times.

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(Exhibit A): Glare!

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(Exhibit B): Weird head tilt! No glare!

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