When I went to the eye doctor last year, we talked for the second or third time about whether I was ready for bifocals. I was not. In the last few months, though, I have gotten so ready. I have to take my glasses off to read my Droid (or else hold it so far away that reaching the touchscreen is too awkward to manage). I have to take my glasses off to do a lot of things, which means I’m always setting them down and forgetting where I left them. It’d be comical if it didn’t make me feel about three hundred years old and decrepit thus not at all amused. Thanks to insurance rules, I can only get one eye exam a year, so I had to wait to go in and get a new prescription until today, one year and one day after my last exam (there were no appointments available yesterday). My regular doctor is on vacation, so he didn’t get to see the culmination of all the bifocal discussions we’ve had. I was a little sad about that, but I did like that the substitute doctor didn’t seem to think my meibomian glands are as dysfunctional as the regular guy does. I’ve got enough to do without having to apply hot compresses to my eyelids every other night. The substitute did want to dialate my pupils, though, so I spent the rest of the morning seeing even less well than has become usual. In a week or so, though, I should be all fixed up, with fancy progressive lenses that won’t have a telltale bifocal line to give away my age. I let my wrinkles do that.
On this date in 2009: Introduction to Holidailies, in which I—well, I bet you can guess.
2008: Mush!, in which I ran in the cold. I miss that.
2007: No entry.
2006: Red Scarf Two, in which I finished a project for charity.
2005: Winter Count—February, in which I said good bye, again, to Bubba the guinea pig.
2004: Holiday Guilt—A Different Kind, in which I felt a little bad about my first mix CD. How quaint.
2003: Scarred, in which I obsessed about my belly. I still haven’t done anything about it.
2002: No entry.
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