Today marked a breakthrough moment in my life. I went to the cinema with my son… and had to ask the cinema employee to read my seat number because—wait for it—I forgot my glasses. The moment the words left my mouth, I knew - this is it. There’s no going back. I’ve crossed over. I am now... officially old.
Mind you, I only recently started wearing glasses. And only because my husband had been begging me to go to the optician for years. At first, I was committed to the lie. I “went” to the optician multiple times. As in, I left the house, loitered near the clinic, came back and announced: “I’m perfectly fine. The doctor said I have the vision of a hawk.”
He wasn’t buying it. I mean, it’s hard to trust someone who suddenly can’t read subtitles and has enlarged the phone font to “Grandma Mode.” Eventually, he insisted on driving me there himself. But being the lazy optimist he is, he just dropped me off and waited in the car.
That was his mistake.
I walked in, wandered around the shop, pretended to be deeply interested in designer sunglasses, and then strutted out with great conviction: “Nope, still 10/10. Doctor’s orders.”
This little charade went on for a while. Years, actually. It was almost fun but I’d squint at books like one of those women who reads with narrowed eyes and her mouth slightly open like she’s solving a Rubik’s Cube.
Eventually, though, I had to face the truth. I crossed over to the other side. The Side of the Spectacled.
To ease the blow, I convinced myself that glasses would make me look bold, sexy, and smart. You know, like those models on the D&G eyewear billboards.
The reality? I look like a tired forty-something with dodgy vision. There’s nothing sexy about asking your nine-year-old to read a shampoo label for you.
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