I’m getting old.
Yes. Old. Ancient. Elderly.
Soon, I’ll be an old fart with lots of thick, dark hair on my chin and along my jawline. Soon, I’ll be drawing in my eyebrows and having birthday parties for my cats. Soon, I’ll start growing things in the dirt a la Ouiser, and making wise-ass comments about everyone and everyth–wait a sec. I already do that.
What event landed me at this conclusion? Today, it finally hit me that I need glasses. As I was moseying across Michigan Avenue toward the Cave to grab some lunch, I could barely make out the label on my gin bottle I was swigging from. I wasn’t sure if it was the 7-11 brand or the stuff I made in my bathtub. That’s a problem. Now, a few years ago, I had no problem differentiating between my homemade gin and the top-shelf stuff from 7-11. Life was good. ‘Twas a simpler time. I could spot the difference between a regular Oreo and a Double Stuf at ten paces. I didn’t have to squint like Mr. Magoo to drive down the street.
But, when a gal can’t read her scribbles on her fancy, computer-generated label on her musty gin bottle or can’t tell the difference between fake and real boobs in her fave porno, it’s time to face the enemy and get specs.
I just felt the Earth shift on its axis.
Now, where is that truss catalog?