So, apparently, I’ve reached that stage of life where my own writing looks like it’s been penned by a drunk spider. At first, I thought maybe I was just too tired……or maybe the pen ink was smudgy……or maybe my journal had started conspiring against me.

Nope. Turns out, I just can’t read my own scribbles anymore.

Now, before you picture me shuffling into “old mates” (the optometrist) clutching a walking stick and muttering about bifocals, let’s be clear ~ I’m still fabulous, still navigating perimenopause (because apparently midlife comes with its own personality subscription)

But that number now includes the “oh-so-trendy” squint, the arm stretch (to see my phone) and the classic, “Wick, can you read this for me?” routine.

I keep telling myself I don’t need glasses yet. Denial is a comfy place. Like stretchy pants after Christmas lunch.

But there’s a part of me whispering that maybe it’s time to bite the bullet, waltz into old mate’s office and admit that my eyes are joining the “perimenopause party pack” of random surprises ♡

Until then, I’ll be here, writing my blog musings, sprinkling them out into the world and pretending I can still read them without squinting.

Love Rain x

PS: If you see me holding my phone at full arm’s length, no you didn’t!