I just had a birthday.
I’m a year away from checking a new box on surveys. Next year, a lot of magazines, TV shows, bars, restaurants, and clothing companies won’t give a rat’s tiny ass if I like what they’re putting out.
I can’t buy into it. I don’t feel older. I mean, there are days when I feel a hundred and fifty, like I haven’t slept in years and my bones could seize up anytime, and the bags under my eyes could house small families. But that’s all physical shit. I still feel somewhere around 17, but a little smarter. I still want to go out and get drunk and dance till my feet bleed and say inappropriate things to bouncers on my way out and straggle home and sleep till noon the next day. And once in a while, I still do. So sometimes, I forget about the numbers.
Lately, my eyes have been doing some funky stuff. Spots that don’t disappear when I blink. Trouble focusing. So I went to the optometrist.
I’m sitting in his waiting room, bored. I start reading the posters about eyeballs. Remembering that kid in Grade 6 who was a badass and used to break into the school after hours to mess shit up, but for some inexplicable reason, he memorized the path that light takes through the eyeball, better than any of the “smart” kids.
And then I read a bunch of symptoms. Hey, I have some of those.
They’re under the heading: “The Effects of Aging on the Eyeball”.
Like a punch to the gut, that was.
I go into the exam room, read some lines of letters, look into corners while this guy looks at me. The corners give me the weirdest deja vu.
I am getting older. I know this, because my memory is starting to go.
The reason the corners look familiar?
I’ve booked myself an appointment with Dr. Douchenozzle.