I just… noticed, really. Under the brightest lamp, the kind that makes the whole damn sewing room feel like a surgical theater, I couldn’t pick out the individual silk strands anymore. Not without my special magnifiers, the ones that make me look like some kind of bug-eyed alien… and even then, it's a strain. My fingers know what to do, pure muscle memory, but the optics are failing. It's a complete sensory deficit, a degradation of primary input, and it hit me like a ton of bricks – the implications. How am I supposed to keep up appearances at the HOA meeting next week when my career, my identity, my whole… *thing*… is quietly becoming obsolete? This isn't just about a missed stitch, this is a whole paradigm shift, and I just… *ugh*.