Last fall when I dragged my sagging hiney to the eye doctor, I fully expected to be prescribed a pair of reading glasses. Or, to put it another way, I entered the building and wailed, “My eyes are broke, my eyes are broke!” Instead, my contacts prescription moved a bit closer to the “oh my gods you are visually impaired!” and I missed out on getting a pair of glasses hanging around my neck on a beaded chain.
Now I know, I should be rejoicing in this last gasp of youthfulness that my still-unadorned neck gives me. But I can’t. Because I’d totally rock that “reading glasses as an accessory” look more than what I’ve got going on right now.
Because what I’ve got now are…wrinkles.