Old Eyes

I was ten years old when the original Jurassic Park came out, and that's when I stopped denying that I needed glasses. At the movie theater with my family, sitting through the on-screen etiquette warnings (there were fewer ads back then), my mom challenged me to read the large, yellow words in front of us without squinting my eyes. I couldn't.

I've worn glasses for nearsightedness ever since. Last year I turned forty-two, and it was the first time my eye doctor mentioned the probability of bifocals. He said I'd likely need them within the next five years. I said okay, sure; it didn't quite seem real. Bifocals are only worn by kindly grandparents and cobblers. Maybe woodworkers, like Geppetto.

The same doctor said the same thing at this year's eye exam. This time I had some corroborating experience, which the doctor coaxed me into sharing. I had indeed started to notice some difficulty in making out small print, or fine details of pictures that were too close to my face. My doctor said it is up to me when to make the leap into bifocals. He said some people continue to tolerate their deteriorating close-up vision for years, until they decide it's too inconvenient. I nodded an acknowledgement that I would pay attention and be frank about the need when my time came.

This tiny acknowledgement must have transmitted a message to my eyes that they are now free to let themselves go, because my presbyopia—which literally means "old eye"—has become more pronounced since then. When my kid insistently shows me a new drawing, or my husband shoves his phone toward me to share a meme, I have to pull my head away. I look like my mom as my chin folds back into my neck and I try, frowningly, to visually decipher the thing in front of me. I'm surprised by the length of the moment it takes for details to come into focus.

Presbyopia means that my eyes' lenses are stiffening, unlike other body parts that become soft and saggy over time. They are slowly getting ready to achieve their final form as useless, rigid spheres inside a skull. I don't necessarily like being aware of this. I don't love the general sense of entropy that befalls an aging human body. I don't love the jiggling of my upper arm flesh, or the fact that I have to concentrate to avoid leaking urine when I cough or sneeze, or my slowly growing tendency to forget the word for something I'm trying to say. I know there is worse to come.

But when my son recently asked if I'd rather be a kid or an adult, I said adult. Being a kid is hard too. I've already gone through my awkward youthful years, and for the most part I wouldn't revisit them if I could (although it would be nice to return to a time before smartphones and social media). I'm grateful for the confidence and wisdom I have now. I'll need them to get through the challenges of middle age.