One of the most irritating and debilitating physical symptoms of the ageing process is the eyesight issue.
As in, lack of it.
Before I hit that wonderful pinnacle of 40, almost a decade ago now, (and at a time when I was still living under the illusion that life was about to begin), I had to wear glasses occasionally; these days, my bifocals have become a permanent fixture, either on the tip of my nose or on the top of my head.
The problems with my long sight have very quickly escalated from such minor difficulties as reading the labels on jars, de-coding of text messages and changing commands on the remote control. But the most galling issue now is being unable to read the price tags in shops.
The other problem is a vanity issue, in that I can’t see if my eyebrows/chin/moles need plucking, and the deforestation required has come to the notice of my daughter.
I am not dark-haired, naturally, rather a spectacularly dull shade of mouse, so those little wiry sprouters that appear suddenly and lurk beneath my brows, have always been difficult to spot in their early stages of taking root. My trusty glasses aided search and rescue for a while. However, since the ongoing deterioration of my eyes, I fail to see the little fuckers these days, even with my glasses on, and when I am lucky to spot one, I can’t pluck it because I have to remove my glasses to get to it.
As you will appreciate, these are very serious middle-aged problems for women.
So a premature duty of care towards the elderly has had to come into effect in our house.
NC has been forced to take on the role of eyebrow carer when I can’t be arsed to haven’t found time to make an appointment at our local Asian
torturer waxer. Finally, I am seeing some promising rewards from the investment we have made in children.
I have suggested to her that promotion will be wiping my arse, but she still insists that I will be thrown into a home at the first sign of any real neediness; or (shudder!) I will be forced to live with Kurt.
I obviously have a lot to look forward to…