The day I got old

Well, age, you finally did it.

I kept pushing back the date I would tell myself that I am an adult. First I thought it was when I graduated high school. Then it was college. Then it was buying a major piece of furniture. Then a car. Then marriage. Then buying a house.

All those I did, but still managed to tell myself, hell, I don't FEEL old, so I must not BE old.

Then, a couple of Fridays ago, it finally happened. I had adulthood forced upon me, and I couldn't give it back.

My optometrist asked, "Have you considered bifocals?"

Forty-plus years of living crashed down on my shoulders like a fat guy in a Speedo hitting the beach at Cannes.

OK, so I had to hold things at arms-length to read them. Doesn't everybody? Just because I now need 8-foot arms to read didn't mean anything to me.

But now, I couldn't deny it. It was time to face facts. I agreed to bifocals. Not the split-lens kind that our grandparents wore, though. The gradual kind.

And I got a funky set of frames.

Just because I'm an adult doesn't mean I'm mature.