I went to the eye doctor last week and was informed, much to my chagrine, that my eyes had finally begun their decent to the depths of old age. As I’ve struggled this week to adjust to my new contacts, I’ve thought a lot about the aging process, and decided that I would rather have perfect vision than a perfect body or a nip, lift and tuck.
My slowly sagging boobs, pouchy stomach and crows feet are souvenirs of my life. I nursed three children; I lost 100 pounds, and I’ve been through a lot of stress that most will never experience. Like a map that can never be folded back just the way it was after being used, they were invaluable on the journey, but will never be quite the same as they were when I began.
The optometrist told me that less than 20% of adults make it past the age of 40 without corrective vision and that since I’d made it until 49, I should be pleased and not sad.
But he doesn’t understand.
I’m finally, just now, beginning to see…