Mom can no longer deny the ravages of time. She's officially a geezer, thanks to her brand new bifocals, fresh from the Wal*Mart Vision Center.
She didn't even get the transition specs, the ones that would have allowed her to at least pretend to still be vibrant and youthful. No, she figured "in for a penny, in for a pound", and chose sturdy rhinestone-studded frames worthy of Great-Aunt Agatha, lenses sliced across the middle with the traditional line of demarcation. All she's lacking now is a decorative gold-tone chain to hold them securely 'round her neck, nestled against her sagging bosom.
It took her long enough to get to this point of acceptance. She's been peering and squinting for a few years now, and Granny finally had enough. "Take the check and GO!" she shrieked, and Mom had no choice but to drag herself in for an exam. The optometrist was a kindly woman who refrained from saying, "It's about time", and instead patted Mom gently on the shoulder, like one might comfort a loved one on their first day in the nursing home.
Mom came home and wept bitterly, or at least groused a bit, and buried her sorrows beneath a gargantuan slab of pumpkin pie smothered in whipped cream. A pie, I might add, that she didn't even SHARE. Then she browsed through the shopping pages in search of elastic-waist pants and sensible shoes. Maybe now the clerks will stop asking for her ID when she buys wine. Instead they'll ask if she'd like the senior discount.
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