Silver Lining To Everything

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Yesterday, my son's book order was returned from school because the credit card numbers I had written in were "invalid." Last week, I added 1/8 of a cup of oil to the salad dressing instead of the 1/3 of a cup the recipe called for. Five out of seven entries on the family wall calendar are illegible to me--and it's in my own handwriting.

And now I'm scared.

Because I know what's next: badly penciled-in hyperextended too dark eyebrows, lipstick that extends beyond my natural lip line--like a chalked out body outline on CSI. The dreaded day that a step out into bright sunlight shows me with one black sock, one navy blue sock on. Rogue eyebrow hairs that escape my detection but no one else's, and fester on-wild and unplucked.

And the worst of it? How do I know these things haven't already happened?

They probably have. I can't go on denying that I need a new eyeglass prescription. It's a hard pill to swallow, when your current eyeglasses no longer serve you. This is a kind way of saying your eyesight has gotten worse. Not just one step worse, but more like two. I envision the Hubble lenses that will await me; deep field vision enhancers capable of showing others distant galaxies, but only enabling me to read the care instructions on my fall blazer.

I know the reason for the four Tylenols a day: eye strain. I know why I act like I want to give my teen practice "night driving" -- it's gotten harder for me to see in the dark. And I have to publicly apologize for making Betty Crocker my scapegoat: the cupcakes aren't soggy because she changed her recipe: it's because she tells you to add 1/4 cup of applesauce, not 1/2 cup.

I will call for an appointment to see my eye doctor. When I call and they ask if there's an urgency to my visit, I'll tell them No Rush.

Because last night at dinner, my kids told me I made the most epic Kool-Aid they've ever had (I was positive the printed directions called for four cups of sugar) and I'm sitting here loving looking at a winged alabaster cherub I brought home from an estate sale last week--he rests on our fireplace mantel, and, well--looks angelic up there in his corner.

How this angel landed in our house is simple. I swear the hand-calligraphied numbers scratched onto the ivory price tag fastened around his neck looked more $29.00 and not the actual $69.00 that I later discovered he was. But by then it was too late, he looked so happy in his new home.

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