I hate to admit this. It's hard to type, as if the words coming on the screen can't possibly be true. Okay, so out with it. I'm going to be forty-nine this year. What? How? Where? Why? My brain asks these questions and I just don't have the answer. 

Yes, I agree, it is better than the alternative. Within those years has come an immense wisdom, like when my daughter asks if I will join her in flinging herself off the twenty five foot jumping rock into the lake. I no longer have to question whether or not jumping from extreme heights is a good choice for me. I immediately know that it is not. I don't have to sit and ponder it, I just know. This type of learned wisdom I do appreciate. 

What I do not appreciate is the need for reading glasses that seemed to oddly appear on the day I turned forty. No way, I thought to myself as I squinted to read the tiny ingredient list typed on a package of gravy mix. I admit, I have been in denial of this unavoidable sign of aging. This is something that happens to other people, not me.

Years ago, I had Lasik surgery which eliminated my dependence on any lens or contact. Three days after the surgery I was blessed with 20/20 vision and it was thrilling to be able to wake up in the morning and not have to fumble for my glasses just to be able to read the alarm clock. For eighteen years my vision was perfect, until it wasn't. I went into the optometrist to treat what I thought was allergies and he told me the bad news. I needed reading glasses. 

I am a stubborn person. Somehow, I feel if I don't allow my presbyotic eyes to become dependent on these darned reading glasses that maybe my vision of the elderly will improve. Eyesight is related to eye muscle strength. I'll just exercise my eyeballs and use the reading glasses for emergencies only. 

I'm able to make it to the coffee pot in the mornings without any obvious oversights. Yes, my sight is a little cloudy, and I probably step on more Legos than I should, but my visual field usually clears up by eleven. I've increased the size of the font on my phone and I feel like I'm completely stretching out my biceps when I have to hold instructions a mile away to actually read the inscription. How can it be that I need these glasses meant for old people? 

The other day Senia Mae and I were driving after a pop up summer thunderstorm. The road was warm and wet, debris scattered everywhere as the steam rose off of the hot pavement. I screeched on the brakes, causing her body to fling foreword in the front seat as I pulled into the nearest driveway to turn around. 

"What's going on?" Senia Mae asked. 

"I think I saw a turtle crossing the road." I said to my daughter. If I'm able and it is safe to do so, I will always stop and help a turtle get to their destination. I can't stand to think of those innocent creatures getting squashed on the road. It hurts my heart. 

As we drive closer to the brown object on the opposite side of the double yellow lines I find myself squinting my eyes, trying to focus on what is ahead. Suddenly, Senia Mae is slapping her knee and laughing in the passenger seat. 

"Mama, that's a pinecone!" She's now in hysterics, chanting, Save the pinecones! Save the pinecones!

Maybe the pinecones, as well as the turtles, do need saving. This is something I may take the time to ponder or maybe its time to give in and start wearing my glasses!