Let me start out by saying that age, and aging, have never bothered me. I didn’t cry at 30, or at 40. And I know I will celebrate 50 and the person I am when the time comes. I’m just generally optimistic. I feel good, and I do not intend to wallow in self-pity when I open the first “over-the-hill” birthday card when I hit the half-century mark. It just better have money in it.
Aside from the fact that the aches and pains that come from a good workout or a long weekend in the garden tend to hang around and hurt like the dickens for a lot longer than they used to, getting older does not have to be a bad thing.
Because it’s an attitude.
And I know that certain things happen with age. Like the eyes. They go. I’ve worn contacts for nearsightedness since high school, and have just, in the past two years, had to supplement my accessory collection with several pairs of cute, funky reading glasses. (Hey, it was that or continue to call my kids into the kitchen to tell me if the recipe says ’1/3′ or ’1/2′.) And I have lots of pairs because, well, I lose them. I leave them places.
Because, for all this happy-go-luckyism about aging, there is no way, on God’s green earth, that I am going to get an eyeglass chain.
Even a cockeyed optimist has to draw the line somewhere.