The Eyes of a 39-Year-Old

I was at an eye appointment the other day. A regular check-up to order more contacts.

It was doom and gloom. My new eye doctor started going through all the things I have to look forward to in my forties.

“Your distance vision will stop getting worse from here on out,” he told me, “but soon you won’t be able to read.”

“Oh.”

“Have you ever heard of floaters?” he asked.

“Floaters?”

He started saying something about something getting detached in my eye. I think I heard the word retina.

“Only two percent of the cases are dangerous,” he said. “I send you to the hospital for those.”

“Oh.”

Then he showed me the pictures they took of my eye ball.

“These pictures are great,” he said. “They even catch brain tumors! They caught one for me last year.”

My hands starting getting sweaty. I have to worry about catching a brain tumor at the eye doctor now?

As he finished detailing the horrible things that would happen to me in my forties, he said this:

“You know, you probably won’t have to worry too much about this stuff. You’ve got the eyes of a 39-year-old.”

I glowed as I walked out of the clinic. The eyes of a 39-year-old? You don’t say.

***

I’ve been telling everybody about my 39-year-old eyes.

“Yeah,” I say, “some people have to worry about their retina falling out of their socket, but not me. I have the eyes of a 39-year-old.”

Or:

“Brain tumor? Sure, people with eyes in their forties need to worry about that sort of thing. But not me.”

I’m really milking my youthful eyes for all they are worth. Take a look for yourself:

Watch out. That picture is what the kids might call a thirst trap. But seriously, look at those peepers. Not a day over 39.

***

I turned 44 on June 9th, 2024. 44. That’s more “4’s” than have ever been in my age before. This is new, uncharted territory. My doctor told me I have a colonoscopy to look forward to this year.

There’s no denying the decay of the body. And don’t be fooled by people who pretend there isn’t something terrifying about our bodily entropy. Sure, people make peace with aging. I plan to make peace with aging. But there should be some existential dread for those of you who are still human. I hope you’re still human.

Me? I’m human as can be. Vulnerable with a capital “v.” But, say what you will about me, I’ve got something going for me. These beautiful, 39-year-old eyes.

“I don’t think that is the flex you think it is, Sam,” my wife Katie told me the seventeenth time I mentioned my 39-year-old eyes to her.

“It’s okay to be jealous,” I said, opening my eyes wider, “not all of us are blessed with youthful organs of sight like me.”

Before I finish, I assure you that “organs of sight” was the third synonym for “eyes” that I found on Google. I’m not somebody who just drops that phrase willy-nilly.

“Hey, you’ve got beautiful organs of sight.” That’s the kind of pickup line a serial killer might use.

Anyway, scroll up and gaze into my 39-year-old organs of sight if you like. I get it. They’re gorgeous.