Who IS That Woman?

The past month has been a whirlwind of medical activity in my life. I have, most literally, been looked at from head to foot by the likes of a dermatologist doing a full-body mole check, a set of doctors performing my annual mammogram/exam, and my chiropractor (twice).

Yet, the most illuminating visit was to the eye doctor. Or, do I call him the eye surgeon?  Eye guru?  Cripe. He's the dude who did my Lasik surgery four years ago.

I knew, going in, that the correction wouldn't be permanent. After all, eyes change. But, I didn't expect that the change would come so soon.

Seems, in the past nine months or so, that my vision just ain't what it used to be, even post-surgery, that is. In the mornings, when I try to read my Bible study before the house becomes fully awake, I find myself rubbing my eyes incessantly, trying to help the words on the page focus themselves.

And, an hour later, when someone asks me the time? I can't read the digital clock from ten paces to save my life. Yes, both near and far sighted options are gone.

For a few months, I blamed my lily-livered, chicken self for not going to get the necessary "touch up" on my right eye. I reasoned "Had I gone in to make sure my vision was 20/20, instead of 20/30 or so, this wouldn't be happening to me."

In July, I squinted my right eye shut to pass the obligatory eye check at the DMV.

By September, I knew I needed an appointment, stat. But, a phone call revealing the cost of the touch up set me squarely back into squinting mode.

I finally gave in this past week. I simply couldn't take another moment of trying to see what I really couldn't. So, I bit the bullet and made my way down to the doctor's office.

I told everyone, from the receptionist to the office manager taking my $100 co-pay, to the girl who performed all the fancy eye tests, that I would need a whole lot more than one Valium to get me through another surgery. If that was in the cards? I was going to need forty industrial-strength relaxants chased by a quart of Jim Beam.

Yeah, that's how much I enjoyed that first surgery.

They all giggled at me and happily passed me on to the doc.

Turns out, the doctor had good news and bad news. The good news? I wasn't going to need any Valium or Jim Beam or surgery of any sort. Instead, I was welcomed "into the club".

The bad news? It's the club for people who need reading glasses.

GASP. CHOKE. SNORT. FAINT.

Turns out, my vision is 20/15. But, my eyes have reached their mid-40's and my lenses are now more rigid than they were when I had the surgery performed. That's what was causing my problem: aged eyes that couldn't easily make the change from close-up to far vision.

*&%^#%)__)&***.

I ventured to Walmart today and bought myself a pair of "cheaters". Yes, they work. Yes, the kids think I look cool, "just like Gran" said Hooman.

It's official people. My husband is having a love affair with an OLD woman. The one he married almost fourteen years ago? Permanently carted off to some foreign land, never to be found again.

I get the impression that I've hit the top of the mountain and I'm careening down the opposite side at lightning speed. I am becoming the person I said I never wanted to be: someone who is young in her brain and old in her body.

So, I guess the joke's on me. Like all human beings, I'm succumbing to the natural aging process. And there ain't no stopping it now.

Don't worry, I won't do anything rash like get a boob job or liposuction or booty implants.* None of those things will, ultimately, stop gravity or aging. And, they won't bring me back to a time when I could rely on my eyes not to treat me like an old lady.

But, don't count skydiving or applying for "Amazing Race" or swimming with sharks out quite yet. I think I still have a lot of living to do.

Even if my vision sucks.




*That would be massive overkill and catapult me into needing to change my last name to Kardashian.