As is the annual ritual, I got new contacts this year. Not just fresh and sparkly lens hermetically sealed in tiny packets of juice but an adjusted prescription, one lens tweaked to far-far-far-away and one for a crisper up close so I can read the sushi menu through legally blind eye bulbs. I also now wear custom (and groovy, natch, metal and copper colored - almost rose) computer glasses over top of them when working at the laptop.
Although I like the look of trendy hipster in my cat eye rims, or hot under-the-bun librarian fantasy that comes with sporting specs, the reason I wear contacts (and have since I was 15) is so I don't have to wear glasses. Another curse of getting older, the choice is no longer mine. Even that eye flap surgery where they slice a bit of the cornea off the top like peeling a grape would leave me needing computer glasses.
If it's not nipples peeking in two different directions or fighting back the inevitable jowls that sprout in mid-age on all the ladies in the family it's wearing glasses over contact lens. What the hell comes next?
I already pull on what women in the past referred to as “support garments,” stretchy camisoles under my Old Navy cotton tanks at the gym to secure the jiggle and back fat. Underneath my clothes you’ll find one piece body briefers, the sexy all-over lace variety but still I’d love to rock a bosom up, mostly sheer demi-bra without bulges (or the dreaded four boob crease) showing through the light weight fabric of a white tee or silky dress.
Where did I leave my reckless youth? All nighters and shots with a whipped cream topping. Now after a night of cocktails, I take two aspirin before going to bed. I limit raw red onions on salads. Stretch first or risk a strain.
Hold my hand when the jowls come for me.