The last year has been a trial – the first vestiges of aging have been thrown at me as though to find my tolerance limit. Growing old is the one thing that scares me most in life. Scares, in fact, is not a strong enough word. It terrifies me to my very core.
The first sign was a loss of patience and a general tendency to ‘grouchy old woman’ syndrome. The second was those creeping grey hairs that seemingly appear overnight to muddle themselves amongst the blonde. The third, and what I thought would be the worst, was reaching that dreaded birthday. We do not speak of the numbers!
So having survived the third I lulled myself into a false sense of security. I lied to myself, convinced myself that getting old is completely natural, nothing to worry about, just accept it and get on with life. Fine.
Except a few months later I realised my eyes were blurry. I couldn’t read signs or distinguish people from a distance. Am I overtired? I asked myself. Working too hard. Too much staring at a computer. Nothing to worry about. Just keep blinking, get some rest, relax. Eventually I conceded and got my eyes tested. I am now the not-so-proud owner of eyeglasses. So far I’ve only forgotten to take them into meetings six times, sat on them three, forgotten I was wearing them and scared myself with reading in giant vision up-close every other day and stabbed myself in the eye with the arm only twice. What a chore it is to grow old.
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