There is cosmic permission, for I’m sixty-two. No worry about Alzheimer's, only my driving.
I stopped by the optometrist's office that same day.
While cheaper than a Google Car, I wasn’t happy with the bill. Of course, my prescription had expired – so an eye exam. New glasses were almost $350. On autopilot (perhaps because I couldn’t see very well), I simply did the routine.
Two-and-a-half years ago when last there, my more-significant-than-I-am other insisted on accompanying me. I would pick out goofy-looking big plastic frames, she would make sure I got new, trendy ones: small, thin, rectangular, metal. I checked around, checked stars on all the TV shows, and had to admit that the grooviest of the groovy were wearing those.
A few days later, just out of curiosity, I searched for a hip yeglass outfit I’d heard about: Warby Parker. It was quite a shock. Now my favorite kinds of glasses, goofy-looking big plastic ones, are the grooviest of the groovies. I was groovy before they were, but wasn’t allowed to be. With my new thin, metal, slightly rounded glasses, I’m hopelessly old-fashioned...
Until I lose them, which might be soon since I have cosmic permission: I’m sixty-two.