Not very well, thanks for asking.
Farsightedness is a stealthy foe, sneaking up slowly.
First you find yourself squinting at a book, holding a newspaper or a receipt out as far as your arms will stretch. This vaguely reminds you of your mother and the television guide in the mid 1980s. Dim lighting (i.e. the cash register at your favorite Mexican restaurant) is difficult. Strangely, overly-bright lights (i.e. fluorescent lights at the grocery store) are equally as problematic.
Then you have a baby at 43. In that blurry, mad moment of birth, you keep thinking, "There's something they're supposed to tell me. I know there's something they're supposed to tell me."
"It's a boy," someone finally says, handing you a tightly bundled form. You look down, and it's all a blur. It's not pain or tears or raw emotion; it's farsightedness.
Glasses -- readers, as most people call them -- become your constant companion. You buy lots of them.
Occasionally, though, you can't locate a pair.
So you think you're buying Yoplait strawberry and banana yogurt, but in reality, it's strawberry and white chocolate which sounds like an enticing combination in real life but not in yogurt.
And you run out to buy four bottles of Silly String for a birthday party . . . and come home with four bottles of temporary hair dye.
You play Scrabble with other forty--something women and play pass-the-lone pair-of -specs.
And maybe you were shopping just the other day because Kolbe's making another movie and needs props. While he heads for the toy aisle and John entertains himself looking at plastic Bowie knives, you decide to pick up a little something for Ainsley . You quickly hone in on a plastic flip phone with multi-colored buttons.
You arrive home and present the gift to a clearly thrilled Ainsley who tears it opens and immediately squeals, "Make-up!"
"There's make-up in that phone," John asks, clearly perplexed. "Whoa!"
Whoa is right.
Those colorful buttons you assumed were, um, numbers are, in fact, lip gloss (in shades of pink, green, and blue). This well-equipped device flips up again to reveal a sparkling palate of eye shadows.
So you confiscate the phone, hoping against hope that the child who still remembers where she lost her last pacie two years ago will forget all about the sparkly phone with more make-up choices than the Clinque counter.
She wakes up this morning and says, "Where's my phone what has the make-up?" which quickly morphs into, "W-H-E-R-E-'-S my phone what has the M-A-K-E-U-P?!!!!"
For a split second you wish you were slowly losing your hearing rather than your sight.