Today, I made an appointment at the optometrist and they had an opening later in the afternoon. So I go. They make me hold a paddle over one eye and read the last line on the chart. Then over the other. Puff air in my face and then put me in front of the eye machine. The optometrist stands up and informs me I have 20/20 vision with my glasses on. All is well in Daktariland right up until she informs me that I don't need new glasses per se. I need trifocals. That's not BI, that's TRIfocals.
Age is a wicked mistress. Right now she's more dominatrix than anything else.
Remember the whole letting my hair grow out and if it's grey, it's grey dammit? Well, it's grey. OK. I really never did like the way the hair color turned my hair red, and my natural color lacks that, but it almost feels like I'm watching myself age. It's not exactly salt and pepper at this point, but there are more than just a few grey hairs streaked in with the natural dark blonde. It's not quite the pretty grey hair my father had, but then again, I think I might have been devestated by a head full of grey hair at 46.
And while I'm at it, that whole Coca Cola Classic thing that I had undertaken with such gusto? It turns out that Coca Cola Classic was only a big treat when I had it just every once in a while. Drinking it regular takes that away and I was losing a small part of the joy of having a Coke.
Gotta run. Have to go shopping for walkers and support hose.