I’ve recently had cataract surgery and as the song says, “I can see clearly now.” It’s truly a modern miracle. Clock numbers are there again. Street signs are legible. I can see birds in the trees. Flowers in the garden.
That’s all good. Wonderful, in fact.
However, I can now see things on my face and hands that others may have noticed earlier but have had the decency and self-discipline not to tell me about.
All of a sudden, this isn’t adding up. I spent perfectly good money so I could see better. Now I have to spend even more money to hide what I saw.
All those splotches, dark areas, deep creases and puffy-nesses are now abundantly clear and visible to the naked (i.e. corrected to 20/20) eye. And the eye is not happy.
Accordingly, I took myself to our local cosmetics emporium. I had but barely arrived when I wanted to leave but their bright lights and mirrored walls encouraged me to stay the course if I were ever to have a shred of self-respect. Or the confidence to appear in public, now that I was seeing what others have seen for who-knows-how–long.
I wandered in that glitzy, shiny, over-stated, beguiling never-never land all by myself for a while before I begged for assistance. As it happens, there was more than one person who was eager to help me. There’s good and bad to that. Was I that needy or were they just naturally helpful? Turns out, I think it was both of those things.
I was there for quite a while and won’t bore you with the ins and outs, the ups and downs, the trials, the patches, the promises and assurances. Suffice it to say that I spent money. More money than I’d planned on spending. No one was less surprised at that than I was. Those people are good. They’re skilled at being optimistic, positive and flattering.
What I bought stays between me and my mirror but I will tell you that one of those nice people sold me a “face lift in a box” and told me that I will see “amazing” results in five to seven days.
Even I know better than that but hope has to spring eternal.