WELCOME TO MY PERSONAL MIDLIFE CRISIS
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I turned 60ish last Sunday. Happy birthday to me, right? Wrong. Nobody cares besides me. Don’t send me a cake, don’t need the carbs. Fact is, I’m old. Know how I know? Because this type is too damn small, that’s how I know. See, something sad happens to most of us between our 43rd and 44th birthday (my neurosurgeon neighbor told me so, and neurosurgeons know everything). Hey, it happened to me. That’s when the eyes start to go. The squinting begins. A scrunched face becomes your natural expression. Longer arms are wished for. Reading glasses start to look appealing, even fashionable. You learn the relevance of +1.00, +2.00, +3.50 and other such numbers. Remember that pain-in-the-arse client who always told you to make the type bigger? I am him, in all his Mr. Magoo glory. And according to the law of ocular averages, you’ll be him too, one day. That nice, clean white space you’ve fought so vehemently for? Like once-pristine land gobbled up by subdivisions, it’ll be gone. Fact is, there’s way too much for us all to see already. We’re overloaded. For anyone of a certain age to stop and read tiny type is a Herculean effort. Make me squint and you’ve lost me. A lot of people in the world happen to be 40-something or better. So welcome to my personal midlife crisis. See you later.
