A Wake For My Youth.

I officially became old today.

And it’s not my birthday.

Last night, at Karaoke with Judy, she noticed I kept moving my glasses farther and farther down my nose in order to read the small print in the songbook. Finally, she handed me her glasses and, voíla. I could see the text perfectly.

So today, cursing the entire time, I paid a visit to the eye doctor and was measured for a very weak bifocal. I stress: very weak. The weakest bifocal stocked in the store, in fact. Any less and they’d have had to special order it.

I really cannot complain. After all, I probably treat my eyes worse than any other part of my body. I read 50,000 words a day, of varying pica and in sometimes less-than-ideal conditions. I work in front of a computer and don’t wear the right anti-reflective coated lenses because I’m not paying an extra $100 for something that’s going to wear off in a year.

But hell, I’m not that old. Bifocals? Come on!

I’m just waiting until someone asks me “Bifocals?”

Why yes, they are bifocals. But damn it, they’re Armani!