Yesterday, while AJ and I were at the supermarket, I bought a pair of reading glasses. They are blue. They are cute. AJ helped me to pick them out. But still -- reading glasses.

Last time I was at the eye doctor he asked me if I wanted to try out bifocal lenses. I told him I wasn't ready for that. Naturally, since then, I've discovered that my laptop is inching ever further down my lap. Lucky I have long arms. Teeny tiny print, especially white on dark, as in the links section of RS's new site makes me see stars. I had to blow up the size of the font to discover that I had an exclamation point next to my name. Yay! An exclamation point! How sad that I couldn't see it at first.

I was hoping to make it to my next birthday -- you know, the one that pretty much defines middle age -- before biting the reading glasses bullet. Instead, I've been trying to justify it by remembering all the things that are still working fine. I could, for example, probably hear the supposed high pitched cellphone ringtones designed to keep people of my generation out. At least, I can still hear the alarm systems around jewelry counters and bank vaults. I can still do a cartwheel in my bare feet on the grass, at least when my lumbago isn't acting up (I kid, I kid. I'm not even sure what lumbago is. It just sounds old and decrepit.). And I am still renowned by the musicians in the orchestra that used to employ me as the one who could whip through any New York Times crossword puzzle in under half an hour. Just don't tell them I now need reading glasses to do it.

There is hope for redemption, though. My grandmother, who, like me, was nearsighted for all her life, hit a point in her forties where her presbyopia cancelled out her myopia and she didn't need glasses at all. But for now, I'm resigned to the glasses. If only I could remember where I put them.

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