I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
|My "old lady" eyes|
This visual degeneration starts subtly enough. Threading a needle becomes more challenging. Fine print seems even . . . finer. At restaurants, you start holding the menu just a tiny bit farther away. And then farther still, until you've nearly set it ablaze against the candle on your table. Yesterday I was shopping with my friend Becky and spotted some cute plates for kids. I peered at the microscopic words on the back of the plate. I held it closer to my face and then farther away. I tilted it towards the light. Finally, dejected, I handed it to Becky. "Can I put this thing in the microwave or not?" She glanced at the back of the plate and then shook her (non-visually-impaired) head. "No." Damn her anyway for being nearly a decade younger than I am.
To be sure, there have been other signs that I am aging. I'll be 41 in a couple weeks. There are the random bodily pains that show up unannounced and uninvited. I seldom get carded anymore, and then only by places that card anyone older than a fetus. I watch the news on purpose.
I may be marching unwillingly towards middle age, but let it not be said that I am a sidelines mom. I not only take my daughter to Chuck E. Cheese's, I play all the games, too (I kick ass at some of them). On Thursday I took her to an indoor water park (her dad had to work) and I rode every water slide with her. I take her to the park and swing upside down from the monkey bars. She and I are the first ones in line when a new animated movie comes out. My mom says I'm a kid at heart. That is probably true. It's just that . . . this kid just doesn't want to admit that even though she can complete the obstacle course at the jumpity-jump place, she can't adequately read the back of a shampoo bottle.
I'll give in, I promise I will. Just . . . not yet.