Friday, November 9, 2012

Terror For The Elderly

Yesterday I dropped my glasses on the floor.

Of course I was concerned whether or not they had been scratched or broken.  Or if one of the lenses had popped out and exploded.  And of course I immediately sobbed.

Because what I was most terrified was that I would not be able to pick the damn things up.

As it was it took almost twenty minutes to figure out a workable plan, gather the necessary implements, convince myself that I would not tumble off my gimpy leg, and capturing the specks without causing more damage.  I forgot how many attempts.  But it what LOTS.

When I finally put the glasses back on and they were all in one piece, thank heaven.  But I wasn't happy and relieved.  Nope.  I immediately thought that I never should have chosen that hideous color and what a damn gyp it is that as a poor nearly blind woman I cannot afford to purchase a spare pair.
 
Yes, I usually see from the dark side.  My glasses, the drinking kind of the wearing kind, are always half empty, filthy, and gouged to bits.

And I later had a terrifying dream about my grandmother and one of my aunts.  There were way too many visible scars.

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