Can I start with my eyes?
I’ve known for a few months now that they get tired. That they gently water. They love to rest when closed. I’ve also known I should probably try on some +1.25 reading glasses—just to see if my close-up vision is starting to shift. So, I stopped by the pharmacy section during a recent restocking-the-fridge mission, determined not to leave any stone unturned in my post-vacation clarity. I grabbed a random pair—+2.00, I think—and slipped them on, a block of cheddar cheese in hand. I looked under and through the glass, toggling between blur and focus.
My golly. The glasses acted like a magnifying glass of clarity.
Which is wonderful.
And also terribly sad.
You see, my identity is my 20/20 eyesight. I’ve stood on the metaphorical Olympic podium of vision pride, rattling off backward and forward Es in record time. Do I need to update my license now to say how badly I suck? What are the ramifications of becoming an eye loser?
Funny enough, after telling Dave this, he had the opposite reaction. His eyesight is so bad, it’s become a point of pride. Laser surgery would only lessen the heroic strength of his blur.
As a minor meltdown brews over my request to put the silverware away, I pick up my laptop and step onto the front porch. If I let myself dwell on it, I might think her response is ridiculous—but it’s not. She’s her own person, and right now, this feels like too much. I get that. Even if, objectively, it isn’t.
Last night, I had a dream about a date, a soccer game, and a new boyfriend. It was tender—that sweet mix of newness and uncertainty, fully present in the moment. And now I’m awake.
And strangely ready, I think, to take on this idea of responsibility that’s been pinging around my mind’s dryer like a lost penny. Post-vacation, I’ve been unsubscribing from junk mail and applying the same relaxed perspective to the little sores and heaviness lingering in my psyche. Responsibility feels so vague, so all-consuming. The reflexive pull to resist whatever task is on the horizon—I can’t even turn up the volume or pause it. It just drones on in the background like a bad fan.
But during one of my wakeups last night, a question surfaced—one I hadn’t asked before. Instead of the usual spiral: ugh, responsibility… heavy chest… unfocused vision… wormy belief that I hate my life, I wondered:
What else is there?
Beyond the dread, the habits, the reflex—something shifted. Slightly.
What’s too much? I wondered.
That follow-up—be more specific—is one I use all the time in counseling. There’s something soothing about specificity. Like if we can name it, we can contain it.
Lastly, we stopped by a Kia dealer and sat in a Niro all-electric car and Sportage hybrid. However much my juices flow over new and flashy things, the price tag isn’t reasonable. Therefore, I’m re-motivated to find a repair shop – THAT IS NOT AN OVERPRICED DEALERSHIP! – and bring the car we have up to Geoiga’s rebuilt title standards.
That’s all for now! Ta-ta! Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 