On a Side Note

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in a Forecast Review looking down upon a ginormous spreadsheet of numbers printed in a the official font of Gnome. There were columns after columns of tiny little numbers with tiny little headers on top and tiny little explanations off to the side.  We have all seen these spreadsheets and all have worked our way tirelessly from one column to the next listening to some vacuous droid elucidate on how relevant these numbers are to the current economic outlook.  Sometimes, though, it is our turn to ramble endlessly about the numbers.  As fate would have it, this was one of those times.

As my turn came near, I thought I would take a gander at the numbers for my department - you know, so I was not speaking entirely out of my backside.  I had been thoroughly briefed by my team several days prior and was confident that with just a simple perusal of the data, my memory would be jolted and all would be well.  I looked over the tiny sheet only to realize that this time, I actually could not read the damn thing.  The numbers, headers and nicely crafted comments were all a blur.  I tried to focus my eyes, bit to no avail. "Had someone printed the sheet even smaller than usual?" I thought shifting nervously in my seat.  Try as I might (and try I did, because I was now in a full-fledged panic), I could not read it. No memory jogging, no brain ticklers that would ignite my brilliance and let my light shine in the meeting, - just blurry, faint shades of gray on the paper in front of me.  Son-of-a-Monkey, I was going blind! 

Yes, yes, I get it - spare the lecture.  I am not in my 20s (or 30s) any more, but aging was not a big deal to me (you are only as old as you feel and my wife reminds me constantly that I act like a 12 year old).  It did not bother me when I lost my hair (thank you, DeVillings) and it did not bother me when my cholesterol shot so high I was officially declared a solid (thank you, Woods) and it did not bother me when I lost my Thor-like  physique (OK, Thor-like may be a stretch, but you get the gist), but my eyes!  Geez-o-peets, it was my last sanctuary of youth.  

So, after a few weeks of denial, I troddeled down to the local ophthalmologist to have my eyes checked (secretly hoping to be told it was just fatigue).  I went through the battery of test with my face locked in the giant eye-testing apparatus and the clicking away of the different apertures.  Which is better 1 or 2?  2 or 3? Apparently, the number I choose won me a new pair of glasses (which I picked out without any ability to see up-close due to the eyedrops).  I can only image this is the beginning of many age-related tests that I will undergo for the rest of my life.  Oh joy! At least this one did not involve a rubber glove and lubricant!