In a typical year, I will burrow through 50 or so books. I read during my lunch breaks, in parking garages, on public transit. I flip through pages in elevators, at red lights, while waiting for customer service.

Lately though, something has felt different. The act of reading no longer brought the same joy as it once did. A few pages in, and I would be putting the book down, uninspired, unmotivated, and feeling the onset of a dull headache.

My optometrist mentioned my age—rather flippantly, I thought—and said I should buy a pair of reading glasses. I nodded to him, but promptly disregarded his advice. Reading glasses indicated that I was old. And old is something I am not. No, no. Not me. Not yet.

So, the discomfort and apathy brought on by reading only increased. I blinked rapidly. I squinted. I held the book out at arm’s length, then inches from my face. But the letters never came into clear focus. Still, I would not concede.

Vanity is a sadistic monster.

Then, last month, I found myself at the pharmacy, passing by a modest rack of reading glasses. I had not gone there for that specific reason, but there I was, nonetheless. And as is usually the case, I had a paperback propped under my arm.

With something less than enthusiasm, I tried on a few. I performed the requisite turning-of-the-head, while looking in the small mirror, vignetted by thumbprints and cheap makeup. I opened my book and saw—for what seemed like the first time—the minute ripples of the page, the serifs dangling from the edges of the Georgian letters.

How long had it been since I could see in such crisp focus? Years, perhaps. The change in my vision had been so slight and so gradual that it came to me as disinterest in something I loved, rather than a plea from my failing eyes.

I settled on a pair of black, rectangular frames. Plastic all the way through. Twelve bucks, case included. So simple. So quick.

I always thought there would be no dignity in getting old—just the vigor of youth replaced by quiet groans and pillboxes. Yet there I was, crossing an invisible threshold, and doing so without reluctance or hesitation.

The whole act of buying reading glasses took a mere fifteen minutes. And in that time, I regained a part of myself I thought was drifting away. In hindsight, there are few age-related conditions that can be rectified so quickly and easily.

Our vanity though, is a different matter. As we age, we must accept that we have little control over what organ deteriorates first. There is certainly no shame in growing old. But there is also no dignity in denying ourselves the things we need as we do.