The Middle Ages

  You know middle age has hit solidly when three women -- two just that side of the half century mark, one  rapidly approaching (that would be me) -- gather at scrumptious Zahav,  look at the menu and immediately squint and grumble about eyesight or lack of. Quickly, the menu waltz ensues. That's when you stretch to arm's length, then inch back and forth, struggling for a distance that encourages visual acuity. It would not pass muster with Bruno.
  This being a stylish place, the light is low, akin to the depths of the mine that recently entrapped those Chileans.  Reading glasses, wonderful instruments of comfort for the over-the-hill crowd, have been forgotten, as usual. One friend hasn't succumbed to the glasses yet, but still can't decipher the minuscule -- is that agate type? -- print. The other is on her way to trifocals (who knew what fun awaits?) but doesn't have the right pair. I don't remember the details. Memory goes around now too.
  So, my only chance at satisfying my appetite is a single tea candle at the table, the only source of wattage. I pick it up and hold its flickering flame to the menu, so close that I'm in danger of starting a three-alarm blaze. Is that beef or peas? We each call out words we think we can see and prices that we hope we're misreading. And so it goes for many minutes, long enough that our waiter checks in twice and a twentysomething maitre d approaches. He inquires about our evening and then proffers a small black tube. With a click, it provides a shining beacon. A flashlight! We have no shame. We all exclaim in delight. My friend grabs it. We are ecstatic. We pass it from one to the other, its powerful beam dancing across exotic ingredients.
  When you're middle aged, a girls night out is all about the quality of the conversation, the food and the flashlight.