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.
Remember back when you were a kid and whenever somebody asked you how old you were, you automatically added enough to your age to make you older? “And how old are you little missy? “Six and a half!” “Wow, when was your birthday?” “October.” “So, you looking forward to Christmas?” “Yep, I can’t wait! Only 5 weeks to go!”
Yeah, I was pretty bad at math, even back then. But seriously, there is this wacky magical dateline in a body’s lifeline that should have big ole neon lights and those traffic cones set up all around it. You know, that day that you just happily sailed right past not even realizing that you had somehow passed from “wanting to be older” to “wanting to be younger”. I know there were no warning signs in my life. Just one day I stopped automatically wanting to make myself older.