Ten years ago, I admitted I might need glasses to drive. I could see well enough during the day, but at night, the headlights from oncoming cars were blurry. I bellied up to the bar and visited the optometrist who prescribed driving lenses.

He assured me I didn’t need reading glasses.

Yet.

A few years later, I noticed the words were a little blurry on the pages of my paperback novels.

“Cheap publishing,” I’d say, holding the book closer.

Then one afternoon, I saw some inexpensive “cheater” glasses in the drugstore. I slipped on a pair of +1.25 lenses, and the world jumped into focus.

I loved those cheater glasses so much, I’d buy a pair every time I’d see some. I rationalized they were less than $5, so I could stock on a few and avoid shelling out major bucks for glasses.

But after a year or so, the +1.25 lenses were losing their ability to let me see the small print. So I moved up to the +1.75. Those worked, but I found I had to move up to the +2.00. And, you guessed it, a couple of years later, I was at +2.50.

And then, the nose pad broke off my driving glasses, and one side kept digging into my skin. Plus I noticed the headlights were getting blurry again, and I figured it was time to admit I was getting older and needed all-the-time glasses.

As I was going through the eye exam, I realized just how much my eyesight had deteriorated in the past decade. Gritting my teeth, I agreed to progressive lenses so I wouldn’t have to juggle reading glasses with driving glasses nor would I have to find big enough sunglasses to fit over the progressive lenses.

Walking out of the optometrist’s office, I had to admit age was not only creeping up on me but it was passing me by like I was standing still. My knees creak most of the time, I’m turning the television up louder than I used to and, gasp, I think there’s a brown spot starting on the back of my hand.

Whoever coined the term “golden years” wasn’t thinking about that valuable commodity in the ground. Granted the alternative to growing older isn’t great, but those of us entering these “golden” years are complaining about the same things were heard “old people” whining about when we were younger.

“The kids never call.”

No, they don’t. They text or Facetime their family members. If you’re not getting phone calls from your grown children, learn about texting and Instagram.

“I can’t figure out my cell phone.” Few people over the age of 50 can figure out all the bells and whistles on a cell phone.

If you’ve gotten this far in life without knowing how to copy and paste a text message, then chances are pretty good you can get by the next 10 years without knowing how to accomplish this feat. Just use your cell to play Angry Birds and text the pizza shop.

“The health-care industry is a heartless maze.” Yes, it is. It’s also overly complicated, totally without compassion or empathy and a working entity only because insurance companies make a profit.

I can either whine like so many others or accept getting older. Along the way, I’m making strides — I’m getting used to the progressive lenses. I’m learning how to tilt my head at just the right angle to read the fine print on my medical card and I found the sweet spot when I want to read the newspaper.

I’m still not sure where to put my feet when getting on an escalator or walking up the steps, but the optometrist reassured me I’d catch on sooner rather than later. After all, these are the “golden years,” and so I have to make hay while the sun shines.

Let’s just hope the sun stays out while I get used to these progressive lenses.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald