If you haven’t yet reached the age where you’re referred to as ma’am or sir, this posting will mean nothing to you so feel free to go about your day. Or, on second thought, read this so you’ll educate yourself as to what awaits when you wake up one day and realize you’re officially a senior, aka long in the tooth, past your prime, seasoned…

Now don’t get me wrong; it’s not like I just entered this realm. In the US, people are considered seniors once they reach age 62. So I’ve already had four years of experience being old. And like anything, there’s good and bad in that.

First the good: A senior gets discounts at movie theaters and on certain days at some grocery stores — not particularly exciting when you consider the trade-off. But qualifying for Medicare and Social Security makes it tolerable. Another aging perk is that men take pity on me, sometimes offering to carry heavy items to my car. Little do they know I can manage on my own. But why spoil their feel good moment and tell them?

Now the bad: Well, how much time do you have? Just kidding. I bet you think aches and pains are front and center. Actually I’m lucky there. I try to keep in shape, work out, play tennis, blah, blah, blah. So once I’m up and moving, I’m good to go.

What’s hardest for me is going blind. Well, not actually blind but sometimes it feels that way. Sad to say, this is a normal aspect of aging. Things started getting blurry in my mid 40s when I couldn’t read the fine print in the phone book anymore. Yes, for you youngsters, there were once phone books.

Anyway, since then my sight has been on a sabbatical and apparently has no intention of returning. Plus I’ve reached my limit wearing nonprescription reading glasses. I bet I have over 20 around the house, in strengths from 100 to 300 and the latter are no longer strong enough for me to read with. Yikes!

Enter the solution…on Wednesday I got fitted for contacts. Again, yikes! The notion of putting circular plastic discs in my eyes is about as inviting to me as eating a plate of lima beans. Hate ‘em; gag just thinking about ‘em. And I felt the same about getting contacts.

You have to admit touching your eyeball just feels wrong, don’t you think? It’s like calling in sick when you’re actually not. (Not that I’d know about that.) But in order to get rid of my glasses, I had to learn to insert my contacts and then remove them and then do it all over again.

Surprisingly, putting them in wasn’t quite as hard as I imagined but taking them out was another thing. She said I couldn’t leave until I did it and since I had a tennis match waiting, I kept poking my eye until I finally grabbed those little suckers…I mean contacts. Breaking news:

Anyway, the doc said the various glasses I wore were way too weak but my brain had adapted to the blurriness. That’s for sure. I now see what I was missing. Literally. The problem is, I can see TOO clearly now. I had no idea my litter boxes have that much litter outside the boxes. I never realized the amount of fur covering my furniture. Worst of all, I can actually see myself in the mirror now, up close and personal. To tell the truth, I’m not so sure I like these new revelations.

So as I see it (pun intended), I either face facts or keep my contacts in their case. Hum. I’ll have to get back to you on that.