I'm not going to lie to you; I'm briskly passing the half-century mark. Like many of you seasoned woodworkers, I've made piles of sawdust without many regrets; it's just lately I can't seem to see the darned stuff.

I should have noticed the handwriting on the wall as I held sheetrock overhead, the blood draining from my arms, while Dad cocked his head funny, desperately trying to smack that #$@%*# nail. He should have planted my butt down right there and warned of the presbyopia curse. Of course, he'd have just said, "These bifocals will kill you!" He took the time to explain the finer points of a firm handshake; why not friendly hints about how someday the tape measure marks would look like Egyptian hieroglyphics?

My Dad's thorough warning would've included those times I wear my contacts with reading glasses perched on my nose -- when I can find them, which is about 10% of the time. His reassuring words would have comforted me, heading toward that 50-year milestone, suffering through maladies like:

• Moving things further away to help focus - like my grandson's diaper.
• Difficulty performing close-up tasks, such as adjusting a planner nicknamed, "snipes."
• Becoming sleepy, getting headaches, or wondering why after two cuts, the board is still too short.
• Working in dim light and accidentally missing the screw head, instead sticking the screwdriver into an unsuspecting spider.

I was installing inset "flush" oak cabinet doors the other day. Why? I'm not sure, but haven't ruled out senility or a nervous breakdown, as the dang things require an almost perfect fit. A 1/32" can spell the difference between a classy product and a project resembling a discount store's vinyl-clad ready-to-assemble bookcase.

Doing my best bifocal head bob, I hunted for that miniscule region where the door's fit was in focus. I knew the spot was there but, like patches of glue magically appearing only after the finish is applied, I just couldn't find it. Out of frustration I finally pulled off the glasses and, putting my face up to the cabinet, found it was the wrong door.

As I scurry around my woodshop the presbyopia isn't a big deal most times. But in dim-lit settings where I'm practically standing on my head trying to install a drawer slide, the curse makes my blood pressure erupt like Old Faithful.

My fate is sealed along with the estimated 90 million baby boomers in America who either have presbyopia or will in the next 10 years. Our time has come and, even though sawdust may collect in the extra hair growing out our ears, we must squint with earnest determination and get on with life.

You young woodworkers listen up! Those nonchalant, willy-nilly days of a quick close-up hinge installations or carefree freshly sanded board inspections are but a fading sunset. Enjoy them while you can. Soon, like the rest of us "old-timers", you'll be hunting for your reading glasses or accidentally cutting a crushed ant instead of your pencil mark.

Wish my Dad had explained ALL the facts about a woodworker's life to me. I would have been more appreciative of "good times" vision. For now, I'm moving to lipped doors with no regrets about giving up getting dizzy while trying to focus on that perfect fit.