Wise crackers

Owl

AGMA’s an on again, off again fan of On Being. Of late, more off again. I need to fix that.

For those of you who don’t know, On Being is a public radio show/podcast here in the U.S. It used to be called Speaking of Faith, but they rebranded it. I guess because it sounded too “religious”. Maybe.

Their website (onbeing.org) describes their purpose… “On Being opens up the animating questions at the center of human life: What does it mean to be human, and how do we want to live?”

Easy peasy right?

A link on the On Being Facebook page to a recent OB blog post caught AGMA’s attention. It’s titled The Wisdom Boom and is by a young, 30 something woman named Courtney Martin. You can read her post here if you want: http://www.onbeing.org/blog/courtney-martin-the-wisdom-boom/8422

It starts out, “Every eight seconds, another baby boomer turns 65.”

Don’t remind me. Only 1,563,520 x 60 seconds to go.

It talks about reframing the concept of aging Americans from a Silver Tsunami to a Wisdom Boom. Wisdom Boom sounds much more optimistic and not quite as frightening as Silver Tsunami. And much better than the 1970’s Gray Panthers.

I like Wisdom Boom, but with a caveat.  Wait for it…

In the post, she writes about specific Wisdom Boom individuals.  She describes their activities and the organizations some of them have established to enable people in the “third act” of life have an impact on the world.

Oops.  I think I must have missed my “second act”.  When did that happen?

At 36, Ms. Martin thinks she’s in the “messy middle”. It’s natural when you leave your 20’s to feel a bit like youth is passing you by. I remember thinking that when I was 34.

But oh, young AGMA and Ms. Martin, nothing could be further from the truth.  At 34 and 36, you are still so very young… Your future is still unfolding in front of you and will for quite some time. The “messy middle” really doesn’t start until you’re well into your 40‘s. And the &hit doesn’t start hitting the fan until you are into your 50’s. You have plenty of time so don’t panic.

Yet.

Just think of this.  A lot of people qualify for the Olympics well their 30’s and 40’s. Just look at Meb Keflezighi (easy for me to say…) At 40, Meb just qualified for his 3th Olympic Games in the Marathon. The Marathon. He’ll be 41 when the Games start in August. Running 26.2 miles in less than 2 hours and 15 minutes. At 41.

Holy crap on a cracker.

Like all of us, Ms. Martin’s in search of wisdom. She has a very busy, crazy life with family and career. She feels like she’s building stamina, but says, “…I’m not always sure I’m absorbing wisdom. Absorption feels like it takes time. I don’t have a lot of that.”

None of us had the time at 36. Trust me, none of us did. But the wisdom comes precisely through a busy, messy, out of control life. You don’t think about the lessons that you’re learning at the time or the “absorption”. You’re just trying to get through each day without screwing things up too badly. But later on, when you do have the time (and you will), you realize that the learning, the absorption, happened anyway. It’s not dependent on you consciously doing anything. The wisdom comes from surviving. And paying just a little bit of attention along the way.

Most of the time.

Ms. Martin sounds incredibly fortunate in that she seems surrounded by mature, self actualized, truly wise older adults. I caution her not to project her experience on all older adults.

And here’s that caveat…

As you and I well know, dear AGMA readers, a blaze of candles on a birthday cake doth not wisdom guarantee. Some of the goofiest, unwise, clueless people I know are in that “third act”.

For whatever reason, they haven’t learned the important lessons from the great taskmaster called Life. They have no idea how to set healthy boundaries and in many cases, are too wounded to grow emotionally as their bodies grow more age rings. And they seem to get more clueless as time passes.

They personify the definition of insanity; doing the same things over and over, and expecting different results. They get angry and bitter because they can’t figure out what happened; what went wrong.

We all know some of these folks. They are not the people to be working on those world impact projects. They might have an impact alright, but no the kind I think Ms. Martin is writing about.

But I so appreciated her post and hope you get a chance to read it.

I really love the idea of intergenerational, intercultural, interracial, interfaith, and whatever interother there may be, friendships. Makes me always want to be in a place where I can meet people who are different from me.

AGMA resolved a long time ago never to move to a retirement community like The Villages in Florida. Too many golf carts and STD’s, and not enough diversity for my tastes. But that’s just me.

Just remember Ms. Martin and young AGMA, you are both just in your early “second act”. Enjoy where you are now and try not to overthink things too much. Keep tapping into those wise elders, but don’t diminish the power of your experiences and instincts.

As some wise person once said, don’t worry about the destination; the joy is in the journey.

They were probably over 65.

 

Stalking friends

address-bk-pages

So I’m still working on my holiday cards. Yup. The past month hasn’t quite worked out like I had hoped. As evidenced by, once again, not posting on AGMA for two weeks. *sigh*

I’m shooting for mailing them out by Easter. But Easter’s early this year so I might be overly optimistic…

I was updating some addresses in my contacts app today. This app links to my calendar and Google Maps and Email and probably five other apps I don’t know anything about. Boggles the mind.  My mind at least.

It made me think about how much my “address book” has changed over the past 40 years.

Of course, back in ancient olden times, when men wore stovepipe hats and women couldn’t show their ankles, we used physical address books. Like the kind with paper in them. Like a real book with pages in alphabetical order with blank spaces for names and addresses. And you would actually write somebody’s address with a  pencil or a pen. Quaint.

I still have every one I’ve kept since I was 19. Seriously. Just a little OCD AGMA showing…

Perhaps not the most efficient way to store friend and family address information compared to digital options today, but to me, my old address books are absolutely priceless. They are the story of my life and the lives of my friends in just a few lines.

Kind of a Twitter type of biography/autobiography.

My early address books reflect the life of a confident young woman just starting out in the world. That would be me. I was so naive…  Lots of information about college friends and still some high school friends. And old boyfriends. Most of whom got crossed out.

As an aside, crossing somebody out of your paper address book is far more satisfying than just deleting their address card from your contacts app. Far more. I mean, think about it. You can slash through their name with your pen like you’re Dexter. Or press your pink eraser to the page, and scrub and scrub their name until tiny beads of sweat start popping out on your upper lip and you lick them off with triumphant delight.  Satisfaction.

Those early address books had a lot of crossed out and erased addresses as friends left the cocoon of home and school, and entered the big wide world. Young professionals starting out in apartments, moving from city to city, buying their first house. Lots and lots of address changes as we all tried to find out where we belonged. And who we belonged with.

Then came the additions. Lots of additions. Cute Kathy Collins became Cute Kathy and weird Gene Wilson. Or Collins-Wilson. It was the 70’s after all… The single names morphed into two names (or three) and the address almost always changed along with it.

In a few years, there were even more additions. In the column beside cute Kathy and weird Gene’s name & address, I added other names along with birth dates. Nicholas 10/31/79. Corrie 7/8/82. Stephen 1/25/84. And more addresses were scratched out/erased as people moved to make room for growing families.

You’d think at this point I would have quit using a pen. Evidently AGMA’s not that smart.

Things stayed pretty stable for a while as people settled into their marriages, homes and families. My address book started looking better than it had in years.

And that’s when some the names started getting scratched out. Uncle Jim, leaving Aunt Ann strangely alone in the name line. And Uncle Harry was alone as well after I crossed out Aunt Mildred. Older relatives and co-workers. In a few sad cases, college & high school friends.

Then, once again, addresses began to change. Children graduated from high school and college. Some friends downsized. Some moved to new cities. Some turned from one into two entries as couples decided to go their own separate ways after years together.

I switched over to digital address tracking about ten years ago. First it was just a document that had all of my contacts in it. That was just a pain in the arse.

Now it’s a contact app that is sooooo much more efficient than my simple paper address books could have ever dreamed of being. So simple to delete a name or change an address or add a new last name. And it wipes out all traces of the previous entry. Completely.

I’m not sure that’s such a good thing.

My old address books are full of amazing memories. Of friends made and lost. Of new love and injured hearts. Of the joy of children and new places, and the sadness of loss and broken relationships.  Priceless.

Because when you cross out a name in a paper address book, you can still read it.  It’s still there. When you erase an address, there is still a faint trace of it on the paper. There’s a history there. A history of how life evolved for my friends and family over the past 40 years. And a history of myself through my relationships with them.

That’s pretty awesome.

I’ve had to delete two names this year. One, a former neighbor, and one, a friend we ran with when we were all 20 somethings. Deleting always makes me incredibly sad.  I don’t mean to be morbid, but I have a sneaking suspicion, at this age, the deletions are just really beginning. The circle of life and all that you know?

But today, I added two new entries. One is a Facebook friend who is going to the “next level” – I’m going to visit her next week! The other is the son of one of my longtime paper address book friends. I’ve known him since he was six. I added him and his wife, and in the notes section, the names and birthdate of both of his young children. That made me smile.

So here’s to a 2016 with more additions than deletions! We’ll throw that out the the Universe and see what happens…

Aging gracefully my ass.

Happy New Year and keep your fingers crossed!

Hanging out in gym class

OldGymPhoto

When I was in high school, there was one thing that absolutely and totally terrified me.

Actually, as a 15 year old in the late 60’s, many things terrified me.  Wearing glasses, gaining weight, being shunned by the “cool kids”, talking to a boy, zits – you know, typical high school stuff.  For the 60’s.

But they were nothing, I repeat, nothing in comparison to the true terror of my young life.  That thing that sent chills up and down my spine, and caused my arm hairs to prickle.  The thing that happened twice a week, rain or shine, with sickening regularity, and caused me non-stop angst the entire day before.  The thing that, AGMA firmly believes, ruined a generation of potential female athletes.  I’m talking, of course, about…

High school gym class.

I blame Presidents Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson.  President Eisenhower established The President’s Council on Youth Fitness to counter reports that America’s youth were fat, lazy and sloppy.  Oops – seems like everything old is new again.

The scope was enlarged by President Kennedy, and in 1966, President Johnson established the Presidential Physical Fitness Award for exceptional achievement by 10- to 17-year-old boys and girls.

And that’s when trouble really started.

Schools started trying to whip their students into shape to win those damn awards.  My high school was no exception.  It was brutal.

First of all, I’m pretty sure they hired gym teachers educated in 1930‘s Germany and/or the Soviet Union. The frauleins were all sadistic dictators with whistles who showed no mercy.  God help the girl who was not naturally athletic.  Like me.

Secondly, we had to do all kinds of crazy sh*t.  We played crab soccer.  Yeah – I said crab soccer.  WTF?  And they made everybody play basketball – even the little, short, plump girls with no coordination.  Like me.

We had gymnastics and apparently everybody was expected to dance across a balance beam like Olga or Nadia.  Or flip over the vault a la Cirque de Soleil.  Or swing around the uneven parallel bars like monkeys in heat.  It was terrifying to your normal, typical, un-athletic, short, nerdy high schooler.  Like me.

Oh yeah – and we did all of this wearing these Orange is the New Black little one-piece numbers – our “gym suits” – that we were actually required to buy.  Like with our own money.  Talk about adding insult to injury…

Thirdly, they couldn’t just torture us in the gym or outside crab soccering.  No.  The agony ratcheted up to a whole new level when, four times a year, we were herded into…

The pool.  The indoor pool to be precise.

So no matter how frigid the Pittsburgh winter was outside, the temperature inside was always a balmy 65 degrees with the water being a roasty toasty 65 degrees as well.  Lovely.

Inevitably, swimming was in the middle of the school day.  You had five minutes to change into your swimsuit.  I don’t know what happened if it took you longer than five minutes.  We were too scared to find out.  Such was the fear of the Commandant…

Then it was jump in the pool in the deep end and tread water in the middle of the pool until the teacher told you to stop.  We treaded for hours.  Maybe that’s an exaggeration.  And you didn’t dare reach for the edge if you were tired or you’d have to tread for another two hours.  Again, possible exaggeration.

Exhausted, you would look up to the bleachers and enviously see the gaggle of “the unclean”.  These were the girls who had notes from their mothers telling the Commandant that it was “their time of the month”.  Since swimming lasted six weeks, every girl was pretty much guaranteed at least one week of “unclean time-out” unless they were slightly…ah…“irregular”.  Like me.  Ick.

We had ten minutes to get our suits off, jump in the communal (oh God I wanted to die) shower, get dried off, dressed and dry our hair.  Everybody in our class was bonded by mutual misery.  Sisters in suffering.  Good times.

We did synchronized swimming our senior year.  And we were awful.  That part was kind of fun because Comrade Gym Teacher would really get upset with us and blow her whistle.  A lot.  At that point we didn’t give a flying fig.  Senioritis had set in.

Over 44 years have passed since AGMA’s last high school gym/swim class.  Normally time tends to mellow distant unpleasant memories.

Nope…

I’m just glad I’ve been able to live a semi-normal life and don’t go into a catatonic trance watching women’s gymnastics.

I think I’m going to lobby the IOC to make crab soccer an Olympic event.  It’s really a beautiful game.

The paradox of the neck waddle

fat-personal-trainer

AGMA’s been quiet lately.  No posts.  No reading of any of her favorite bloggers.  No comments made or answered.  I hate that.

But all my time and energy for the past few weeks has been focused on something that I needed to get out of the way.  Like seriously get out of the way.

Last September, I signed up for personal trainer certification program.  Somewhat ironic and absurd since I’ve never had any interactions with a personal trainer in my life.  And it has been years and years since I’ve been to a gym.  You can kind of tell by looking at me.  Okay, you can definitely tell…

“Why then?” you might well ask.  There is a method to AGMA’s madness.  This time at least.

As a therapeutic massage therapist/bodyworker – the legit kind – I need to be able to give my clients corrective exercises that will stretch the over-active (tight) muscles and strengthen the under-active (weak) ones.  Legally.

Ah – there’s the rub… (no pun intended)

Massage-world trivia you didn’t know and couldn’t care less about – assigning corrective exercises to clients is out of a massage therapist’s “scope of practice”.  At least in the US.  No can do.  Nah baby nah.  AGMA could get into some seriously hot water if she gives out an exercise and her client get’s hurt doing it.  And complains to the Georgia Board of Massage Therapy.  And sues AGMA.  Boiling water.

Giving corrective exercises is definitely in the scope of practice for a CPT (certified personal trainer.)  The light begins to dawn…

AGMA likes to follow the rules.  Most of the time.  And she likes to help her clients as much as she can.  Hence the CPT journey by the woman who looks least likely to simply go to a personal trainer, let alone be one.  Life is strange.

I had six months to complete the book/online course and take the exam.  My drop dead date was March 11th.  After that date, I would have to pony up an additional $600 for another go at it.  $600 is almost a round trip ticket to Dublin.  Thank God I have my priorities straight.

I took the test on March 10th.  Of course. No need to rush these things.

While I did all of the reading and online videos spread out over the past six months, the last few weeks have been spent exclusively cramming for my test.  Well…and doing the other very basic “stuff” that one needs to do to simply survive each day.  Work, eat, sleep, Skype with my grandson, watch The Big Bang Theory…

When I first started really seriously studying, I almost gave up.  It seemed neurologically impossible for me to store that much information in an already over-stuffed, under-active, aging brain.  For one brief instant, contrary to her nature, AGMA wanted to quit.

But $600 is a big motivator.

So I crammed.  And I did the online flash cards and the practice tests.  I condensed key information on study sheets.  And would pull out the study sheets at stop lights to review.  Did I mention I can get a bit manic?  You may have guessed that by now.

It worked.  I passed.  Yippee.

I can now proudly put CPT behind my name along with LMT, MBA.  Oh – and BS too. The BS is probably the only one that truly captures AGMA’s essence.

So here I am.  A paradox.  A 60 something woman with a thick mid-section, cellulite infested thighs, flabby, jiggly upper arms, and a substantial neck waddle who is now a personal trainer.

Truth is indeed stranger than fiction.

But I’m inspired.  The day after I passed my test, I resolved to lose 25 lbs.  And I threw down the gauntlet in a very public way.  I put it out there on Facebook for the world to see.  Or at least the 20 or so people who actually follow my FB posts.

Today is the third day of tracking calories.  Ugh.  I’m using MyFitnessPal.com and their Android app.  It allows you to  scan the barcodes of food with your phone camera and capture all the nutritional information.  It makes tracking what you eat easy peasy.

Damn.

Scanning the barcodes is fun ’cause I’m pretty easily amused.  But actually seeing how many calories, how much sugar and how much fat are in the foods that I have been eating isn’t so much fun.

It explains a lot.

I’m sure a new, svelte AGMA is right around the corner.  Or down the block.  Or maybe in the next town over.  We’ll see…

I’m just glad the I passed the test, get hang with my blogging buds once again and can afford go back to Dublin!  At the end of the month.

How many calories are in a Guinness again?

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

As birthdays go, this one sucked

catinthehataging

Aging is not for the faint of heart.

It takes guts to get up in the morning, mentally and emotionally feeling like you’re 35.  Then you walk into the bathroom and look in the mirror.  The horror strikes.

WTF?  When did that happen?

And it really is like that.  One day you’re young and the next day the cashier gives you the 5% discount on Senior Discount Wednesday at Kroger.  And you didn’t ask for it.  Or is Senior Discount Day on Tuesday?  I guess I should figure that out…

It all happened in the blink of an eye.  But I honestly don’t remember blinking.

Maybe it means that my life has been full and busy.  Time passed, but I didn’t notice.  Everything seemed pretty much the same day to day and year to year.  Yeah, and that’s exactly what the Grand Canyon said when it was little gully with a stream flowing through it…

I just had a birthday recently and turned 61.  Happy birthday to me!

But last year’s birthday was tough.  Not being one to really ever be age sensitive, the whole turning 60 thing last year kinda shook me. It took me nearly the whole of 2014 to get used to having a “6” in the first position of my age.  Now I’m very zen about it.

Not for the faint of heart.

And, not only do you age, those all around you are aging too. Friends, family, co-workers, TV and movie icons.  Except Meryl Streep.  My God, that woman must have a pact with the devil.  Did you see her at the Golden Globes?  So amazing…

As a Baby Boomer, I’m doing what all Baby Boomers are doing now. I’m “reinventing” myself in an attempt to defy the aging process. Becoming a massage therapist in my late 50’s, starting AGMA last year, going for my personal trainer certification in 2015, training to run a marathon next month, traveling overseas as often as I can. Didn’t you know, 60 is the new 40?  Yeah, right.

I’m running just as fast as I can.  But I can’t hide.

That was made brutally and tragically clear a few days ago on my birthday.

A woman in my running group turned around about a mile into an eight mile run saying she wasn’t feeling good and was a bit dizzy. Nothing she said gave anybody cause for alarm.  When we got back to the parking lot ninety minutes later, she was found non-responsive in her car.  One of our group immediately started CPR until the EMT’s came.  She was taken to the hospital and was pronounced dead.  Heart attack.  She was only a few years older than me.

Here one minute, gone the next.  Literally.

Two days later, the husband of another person in my running group died very suddenly, with no warning.  Seriously?  Has the world gone mad?  Maybe I should quit my running group.

Can’t hide.

But honestly, maybe I don’t want to hide.  If it’s my time, then it’s my time.  Frack the Grim Reaper…  Hell, I didn’t even eat the salmon mousse!

“Getting old is a privilege denied to many.”  It’s a corny saying going around social media, but it’s kinda true.  It was denied to my friend and my friend’s husband this week.  It was denied to too many generations of young people who dutifully marched off to war.  It was denied the victims of 9/11 and the Indian Ocean and Tohoko tsunamis.  It was denied to the staff of Charlie Hebdo.  You get the picture…

So I guess I’m actually feeling pretty good about this aging thing. Sure, some mornings the knees take a while to get moving and I’m getting cataracts and many times I don’t remember what I went upstairs to fetch.  But all in all, it ain’t bad.  Yet.

To celebrate, for the next week, I’m planning on eating some amazing food, drinking some outstanding wine and savoring some of the best coffee in the world in a city full of really old, ancient stuff. Way older than me.  Roma.  I expect I’ll feel like a tween at a Justin Bieber concert.  Oh Baby!

Ciao!

Table for one please!

samplelady

I have a friend who insists on posting a Christmas count down on Facebook every day.   Well – maybe it’s not every day, but it’s frequent.  Too frequent.

Five more Saturdays until Christmas.  34 more days until Christmas. 816 hours until Christmas.  And they all have a picture of some Disney character dressed up as lame Santa, passing out gifts and smiling.  Ugh.

Terror grips me when I see these posts.

My pulse gets faster, my stomach starts to get that “roller coaster” feeling and little droplets of sweat ever so gently start meandering down my forehead.  I told her these posts make me anxious. Evidently she doesn’t care.  The relentless countdown continues.

48,960 minutes until Christmas.

Of course, my response is Pavlovian of sorts, based on conditioning from holiday’s long past.  Novembers and Decembers that were nothing but a blur of non-stop activity and motion.  Back in the days when I worked outside the home, entertained friends and neighbors, volunteered at church and school, took care of aging parents and tried to give my kids the perfect Thanksgiving/Christmas every year. Yeah – good luck with that.

Basically I acted like the Tasmanian Devil in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Complete with the unintelligible grunting.  And I kinda looked like him too.  Still do.

But now, the holidays are a breeze.  The kids are grown and on their own, I live in a new city so there’s no entertaining old friends, neighbors and co-workers, my job is very part-time and my parents passed away.  Plus, gift buying on the Internet gives a whole new meaning to the term “easy peasy”.

But some days are still busy though.  Like yesterday.  Places to go; things to do; people to see.  Days like yesterday during the holidays make getting proper nutrition a challenge.  My morning banana and mocha only last so long…

My stomach started rumbling about 1 PM, but I still had a few stops to make.  I needed to get my glasses adjusted, buy toilet paper and get our Thanksgiving turkey.  What to do, what to do?

It came to me in a flash with a clarity of mind and reason I rarely experience.  I did what any hungry person of a certain age would do in the middle of a Friday who needed a spectacle adjustment, a turkey and mass quantities of toilet paper…

My name is AGMA and I ate “lunch” yesterday courtesy of the sample ladies at Costco.

I think of it as a power lunch.  It allows you to power through shopping while enjoying the wide variety of outstanding food products offered by this membership-only warehouse club.  They graciously provide the fuel for your engine so you can shop until you drop.

Fridays in November and December is THE best time to dine.  The sample brigade is out in full force in preparation for the weekend of unbridled holiday food buying.  The Costco food departments are loaded with holiday favorites – ham, meatballs, cheese, chocolate, cheesecake, candied pecans – and they want to share it all with you. For free.  That’s the best part.

During the day on Fridays in November and December, the hoards of shoppers there on the weekends are delightfully absent.   This give you full accessibility to the “buffet”.  No wild children snatching the samples out from under your nose.  No elbows being thrown at you trying to get the last sample.  No lines to wait in to get that schmeer of spinach artichoke dip on the pita chip.  Lunchtime nirvana.

You’ve got to know the “unwritten” rules though.  Only take one. Dispose of the toothpick and napkin in an approved receptacles. And thank the sample lady.  Every now and then, buy what you are sampling.  If you can do that, sometimes you can get away with taking a second sample. “This is SO good, I think I’ll just grab another one!”

If I had some good Tempranillo with it, I’d swear it was just like eating tapas in Spain.  Kind of.  In a sick and twisted way.

Bon appetite!

Ocular Misadventures-Part Deux

glasses

[FYI, this will be my last post for a couple of weeks.  I’m off again tomorrow on another AGMA travel adventure!  I’ll miss ya’ll!]

In my elementary school, each class marched into the nurses office once a year to read an eye chart. They wanted to make sure our vision was okay.  I guess my eyes were passable through 5th grade. All hell broke loose in 6th grade.

I started squinting to see the chalkboard.  Very gradually – so gradually that I never really noticed – the moon developed a hazy ring around it.  Trees branches lost their definition.  The world became a soft, fuzzy place with blurred boarders.  Everything looked like it was surrounded by blobs of cotton candy.

In 7th grade, I went to a “proper” eye doctor.  Turns out I had become extremely near-sighted.  Duh…  I needed glasses.  This was a death sentence to a tween girl.

I was going to be a four eyes.

I didn’t like getting glasses.  They felt odd on my face and made my eyes look beady.  But it was wonderful being able to read the chalkboard and see individual leaves on a branch.  The moon and car headlights didn’t have halos around them.  The world was in sharp focus – at least visually.

But I was desolate.  Everybody knows, “Boys never make passes at girls who wear glasses.”  Pigs.

In high school, I traded in my glasses for big girl contact lenses. They weren’t particularly comfortable and were a royal pain to take care of, but I was “make a pass at” eligible again.  Nobody did.  Pigs.

In college, the abuse started.  Many nights I would fall asleep (pass out?) with my contacts still in my eyes.  The next morning I’d have to chisel them out.  Ouch.  Going to college in Texas, then Arizona, there was no shortage of windblown sand and dust.  Ouch again. And when I “slept over” and didn’t have my contact solution, I spit on my contacts to put them back in my eyes in the morning. That is assuming I actually took them out the night before and put them in the closest thing resembling a Dixie Cup for safe storage.

It’s amazing I have any sight left at all.

I wore contacts until I was in my early 30s.  After the birth of my second child, I didn’t have time to fool with all that contact lens nonsense.  Married for 6+ years, I figured two kids sealed the deal so I didn’t have to worry my looks anymore.  I started wearing glasses again.  I honestly don’t think my husband even noticed.  He’s an absent minded professor type…  I still don’t think he’s noticed.

Round about the time life started to settle down again for a minute (meaning the kids went off to college), I started thinking about wearing contacts again.  But damn…now I needed readers for seeing things close up.  Even if I got contacts, I’d still have to wear glasses for any “close up” stuff which is like 50% of the time.  Crap.

I could get those “Jekyll and Hyde” contact lenses where one eye has a distance contact in it and the other has a close up reading contact. Really?  They say that your brain gets used to seeing catawampus. I’m pretty sure my brain is already working to it’s maximum catawampus capacity.  I seriously don’t want to confuse it any more than it already is.  Besides, the whole thing just sounds creepy…

I opted for progressive, no-line bifocal glasses.  The lenses look like “normal” lenses, but they’re very sneaky.  The top part is for distance and the bottom part is for reading and, true to the advertising, there is NO LINE.  Nifty…but I’m STILL wearing glasses.

Shelley at Destinationnow.me commented on my last post that she had new eyeball lens implants when she had surgery to remove her cataracts.  She’s glasses free because one lens implanted is for close up vision and the other lens is for distance. Still kinda creepy, but the idea of having nearly perfect vision and never wearing any corrective lens ever again is somewhat intoxicating.

So, in ten years, when I get my cataracts removed, provided I don’t contract ebola and die in the meantime, I will, once again, be “make a pass at” eligible!  I’ll be nearly 71.

Get in line boys….get in line.  My dance card is fillin’ up fast!

Behave while I’m gone!