That is the question.
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The knives and needles of outrageous vanity
Or choose practicality over a sea of expense and constant upkeep
And by opposing, face what is true. To age, to accept—
No more—and by accepting to say we give in
To disappearing, and the thousand natural shocks
That gray hairs beget. ‘Tis a submission
Frankly to be coveted. To age, to accept—
Oh crap. I can’t keep this up.
Shakespeare I am not.
Yet, the question remains.
Do I admit to myself that after years of being the one whom people depended upon to read the fine print on medicine bottles and the highway signs off in the distance that my age has caught up with me? Do I take the doctor’s word for it and get my first ever pair of eyeglasses when my arms remain long enough and the iPhone flashlight app is bright enough for me to continue to make out the words on menus in dimly lit restaurants? And the truth is that when traveling on unfamiliar roads, signs are no longer a necessity. Google Maps directs me perfectly. Usually.
Despite the temptation to keep the reality of my stage in life under the radar, I decided to do what had to be done. Surprisingly, shopping for glasses was sort of fun. Once I called on my friend to cheerlead for me. (She didn’t bring pom-poms but provided loads of pumped up praise.)
The order is in, the glasses arrive next week, and my ridiculous vanity is still in tact. The glasses don’t make me look older; they make me look more sophisticated. And extremely sexy.
I dare you to say otherwise.
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