We traveled to the big city yet again yesterday for some errands and an eye exam for me. (I was given a Gold Star as my eyeballs and related apparatus ranked super-healthy and haven't changed [read: deteriorated] one whit since three years ago, thank you very much.)
Our optometrist, Dr. T, is a warm, funny, talkative gal with a high degree of intelligence and easy laugh. She also has a quirky fascination for numbers which she sheepishly claims to have had all of her life.
During my exam, looking at my chart, she commented that she and I have a special numerical bond this year.
"How so?" I queried?
"Well," Dr. T explained with a grin on her face. "You were born in '43 and are now 68. I was born in '68 and am now 43."
Oh-kay. I needed a moment or two to ponder that. (Who the heck would ever have even thought of that?)
Later, after hubby returned from running errands while I had my appointment, I told him of my "numbers" conversation with Dr. T. He, too, took a minute to process that birth date/age information . . . and then I could see it visibly on his face as his mind traveled to another thought.
"Wait, she was BORN in '68?! I was through college and out working and we had been married for 5 years in '68!" (Time sure does fly when you're having fun.)
We, obviously, had never thought of our capable optometrist as young enough to be our daughter. (Or was it that we were old enough to be her parents?) Which brings up the point, at what age does chronological age cease to matter or enter into the big picture of friendships and/or relationships?
And . . . is it okay that I ordered new glass frames even though I didn't need to have my prescription changed?
the quotidian (10.23.17)
12 hours ago