I said, "Hey, I'm going to stand here, right behind you, and watch. You have the font set too small on your computer."
He peered up at me through glasses that looked like a matching pair of magnifying lenses, and groused, "How old are you?"
He swiveled away from me and said, "Yeah, that's when it happens."
A couple of weeks later I was the proud owner of a set of prescription reading glasses.
My father died when I was 22 months old. I don't remember him. I have a few things of his: his East German 35 mm film camera, a brass button from his Hungarian army uniform, his wedding ring from when he was married to my mom (it is now my wedding ring for being married to my wife), his cuff links, and his glasses. Lately, through a miracle of heredity, I have been able to wear his glasses.
Wow, I'm wearing Dad's glasses. And they work perfectly for my eyes. Interesting, how we like to wear somebody else's stuff: a kid wears his dad's coat, a wife wears her husband's shirt. It really does make you feel closer to that other person.
So, of course, this week I put the glasses on, and the frame broke. It exploded. It flew apart with a dry crunch that only 50 year old plastic can give.