Blurry But Not Blind

Tuesday are for Tea!

Dear Auntie Abla,
You just gotta laugh.

I used to sit beside my husband watching TV, casually monitoring his incoming text messages with the confidence of a CIA operative. One quick glance, and I assumed it was his coworker, Angela or the group chat with his cousins. I could ID an emoji, or random words from a quick glance.

But then when I turned 40, it seems like everything needs a prayer and a jumpstart: my car, retirement savings, ankles and my eyesight.

Now, by force I have to wear reading glasses just to see the microwave clock, let alone a text message font from six feet away. I don’t want to be obvious about putting my glasses on every time his phone lights up (because nothing screams “I’m watching you” like peering over bifocals mid-Netflix). So instead, I’ve been keeping my glasses nearby, like a secret weapon, hoping to catch a glimpse without looking, you know too suspicious.

The problem is, I can’t wear them and watch TV. It’s like the universe is playing games with my vision and my nerves.

So, Auntie Abla…
Do you think the universe is telling me to give up snooping?

Sincerely,
Blurry but Not Blind

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Dear Blurry But Not Blind,

Ah, my dear. Let’s raise a warm cup of ginger tea in memory of your pre-40/20 vision, gone like last year’s waist beads, but fondly remembered. May it rest in optical peace.

Now, onto your husband’s text messages. Is the universe telling you to stop snooping? Maybe. Or maybe it’s gently nudging you with a soft whisper: “My dear, your focus belongs elsewhere.” Like reading the fine print on that new turmeric face mask, or catching the tiny scriptures in your church’s WhatsApp group chat that somehow come in size 4 font.

Let’s be real, tilting your glasses every time his phone lights up like a Christmas tree is not only exhausting, it’s a full-time job. And last time I checked, you don’t work for National Security.

You’re a whole woman. A radiant, evolving, moisturized woman. And you deserve peace, a well-framed face, and a future filled with glow—not guesswork.

So here’s the move: either ask him to increase that font size on his messages and call it “shared marital alignment,” or better yet, let him scroll in peace while you mind your joy, the grey hairs that seem to be sprouting everywhere and that cute jumpsuit currently haunting your Facebook ads.

And remember, Auntie’s final word of caution:
The only thing more bothersome than a message not meant for your eyes… is a hefty charge to his credit card that you just so happen forgot to mention.

Protect your peace. Prioritize your glow-up. Mind the business that pays you and occasionally buys you shoes.

Amplified, aligned and always sipping tea,
Auntie Abla