Getting older sure beats the alternative. However, there are indignities associated with middle age. And I’m not just talking about cellulite and the absence of wolf whistles from construction crews.

I’m talking about granny glasses.

I broke down and visited the eye doctor last week. After fifteen minutes of his gentle tongue lashing a la “Why didn’t you come see us four years ago? How can you function as a writer with this kind of near-vision? You’re giving yourself eye strain, headaches, and crow’s feet [thanks for rubbing salt in the wound, there, Doctor],” he talked options.

“How would you feel about a permanent solution?” he asked.

“You mean Lasik?” I could do Lasik. One procedure, no more hassle. Awesome idea.

“No, I mean full-time glasses instead of just reading glasses.” He looked down at his notes and pretended to write something.

“I’m not following you. I only need them to read. They mess up my far-vision.”

“Um, some people like to have the ability to read and keep their far-vision intact, so they go with a split lens.” He had now completely turned his back on me and was fiddling with instruments. The man was afraid of something.

“You mean bi-focals????” I squawked. Because chickens understand chicken language.

“Yes, that’s what some people call them.”

“No, I don’t think I’m there yet,” I huffed. Helloooo, had he looked at me? Did I resemble a wearer of granny glasses to him? Surely not yet, surely I was a lonnnngggg way from that.

So, after that smackdown, off I trotted to get my reading glasses. I tried on a bazillion pair, and finally narrowed it down to three. I took pictures of myself in them on my iPhone and texted them to Eric for the final choice. Luckily, he agreed with mine. Thus, I have a photographic record of the exact glasses I selected and handed to the sweet young woman who helped me. The exact simple, plain, top-rimmed gold wire glasses with tortoise shell ear pieces that I picked out and ordered.

My glasses arrived yesterday. I’m wearing them as I type (and I can see the screen, which is a nice change). The young woman fitted me for them in the store and said, “These are so pretty that it’s a shame they’re just for reading.”

I beamed.

Until she handed them to me. Apparently, the manufacturer had upgraded the model in between when the store obtained their sample pair and when they placed my order. My simple gold wire-rimmed frames had transformed. They were bedazzled. Bejeweled.


The only people I ever saw wearing pimped out glasses with rhinestone hoohas were blue-haired octogenarians in scooters at Kroger Grocery. I, a spring chicken of 45, an athlete who plans to rock a bikini this summer, could not wear Jewells. What rat bastard saw my order and decided that I fit the Jewell profile? If I ever meet him, he’s in for an ass kicking.

I questioned the order. The woman verified that the glasses ordered were the same model as those I had tried on and those received, just…better.

I put them on. I could read my credit card receipt. I could read the fine print on my warranty. I looked sort of cute, from the front. So, I could either suck it up and wear the pair I bought, or I could select a new pair and fork over a few additional Ben Franklins.

Pffft, everyone knows I’m cheap as dirt. Y’all can now enjoy the image of me for the next coupla years, rocking my bedazzled specs. I’ll just leave them at home and go blind when I’m with a client.

I’d write more, but I’ve got to go drink my Metamucil now.



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