Downhill

I accept that even at the tender age of 43 I am knocking on a bit, and in accepting it, I attempt to counter it by staying relatively fit through regular exercise and a Haribo-based diet. The result of which is that I am now in the best shape of my life. So far.

Why then are medical professionals obsessed with ageing me (“Mr C, 53 years of age”), providing backhanded compliments (“…for a man of your age”) and instead of stopping at “Your eyes look good and healthy, no macular degeneration or change of prescription required… (remember this is after over 18 months of living life through MULTIPLE FRICKIN’ SCREENS)” why does the optician feel compelled to cock her head to the side and say in a soothing tone: “…of course it won’t always be this way.”

What the hell, Specsavers?!

Why not: “Looking good, Mr C! Whatever you’re doing to keep those eyes so healthy, keep doing it, because it is working, Mister.” Then high-five me, coolly tell me that you’ll “see me in two”, and then cheekily slap me on my behind as I sashay through the door. In my shades.

I don’t want to be reminded that it’s all downhill from here, I’ve a mirror for that.