Seven years ago I was told that I had the beginning of cataracts. When they became “ripe” I could have them removed. I wanted to think of myself as a bottle of wine, aging gracefully, and reaping the benefits later. People I knew that had had the surgery were pleased with the results: no more prescription glasses, unless they were needed for reading; waking up in the morning and seeing everything around them.
I could hardly wait. And that is what I did: I waited, and waited, and waited for the damn things to “ripen.” I no longer thought of myself as a “bottle of wine”; rather I thought of myself as an aging old woman. I found myself not willing to drive at night because of the halo’s of oncoming headlights; I couldn’t see the street signs in the dark and I was afraid that I might not see the bike riders along the streets in Ocean Beach.
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