My kids can be a real pain when it comes to getting themselves together and getting out the door (especially for school) so I say to them, reapeatedly and usually at high volume (read: screaming up the stairs) TIME MOVES EVEN IF YOU DON’T! I don’t think they have any idea what I’m talking about but it makes perfect sense to me. At least I thought it made perfect sense until I found myself squinting at the text of a book the other day, putting my glasses on and holding it farther away then taking them off and bringing it closer in, desperately looking for a comfortable spot where my brain might try concentrating less on my vision, and more on what the book wants me to see.

It’s a real battle.

Over Christmas I read Eat, Pray, Love. My neighbor gave it to me and while it’s not the kind of thing I’d normally seek out to read I will admit that I had a ball with it, although I am intensely jealous of anyone who who has the ability to take off for a year and roam around the world contemplating her life. However, I should mention that part of my glory in reading this book is that it has really big type. And big pages. Big, big, big. Love it, love it, love it. Like typeset cashmere. Glasses on, glasses off I can roll around those pages no problemo. I could even read it in my contact lenses and I can’t read anything that’s not a quarter mile away in my contact lenses.

Now I’m readingVillette by Charlotte Bronte and I’m going blind. It’s careful stuff, reading the pages of a used (and thereby yellowed) classic in paperback, sort of like walking barefoot on a gravel driveway. I hold it out, I pull it in. I put my glasses on and take them off. It’s not easy to find the balance between my longstanding near-sightedness and my newly blossoming far-sightedness, but there is a place somewhere in the middle where I can see perfectly. I could be a fighter pilot in the inch-thick layer about a foot and a half from my head.

Actually, I strike a nice reading distance when I’m on my stomach in bed, propped on a pillow and my elbows. This is not, however, the best distance for staying awake. Thank God the ink doesn’t come off on my face. Otherwise I’d look like I’d had a tough night an odd Victorian-themed nightclub.

In any case I’m left wondering, yet again, where the time went. Time has moved, even though, in my mind at least, I have not. I am the same. I feel the same. I look the same. Well, maybe not that last one, but it’s hard to say because the mirrors we have must be really old. Like the house. The house has lines in the walls, too, where gravity has had its way.

But it’s definitely not me.